


You Are My Sunshine

by BetweenTownleys



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Hurt feelings, Internalized Homophobia, John is dumb as rocks, M/M, PINING!!!!, XXX content, a very gay reading of the main story, arthur is paragon good and john is a greasy fool, high honor arthur, if you love tearing your hair out over soft arthur read this, john bones like a ferocious wild animal, maybe john is not as dumb as he seems, now special guest starring: JOHN POV, origin stories every which way, sad rain sex, super duper complicated family dynamics, tortured good arthur, white hat playthrough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2019-09-24 00:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 82,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17090870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenTownleys/pseuds/BetweenTownleys
Summary: Arthur thinks of Hosea saying that the pencil should be guided by love; that looking at a thing is not the same as seeing a thing, and that this is the difference between a hack job and a man with any real modicum of talent. Arthur thinks about how inextricably his loyalty, faith and love are all tangled up together inside his heart, and he draws John’s portrait up in the tree as faithfully as he can, faithful enough even to remember the bits of twigs stuck fast in his wild black mop of dirty hair.This is the first time Arthur thinks that he loves John.[a canon-compliant prequel Morston tragedy, in 8 parts]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have written this out of a foolish love of pain, and also for fun. I basically never write in present tense, ever?!! So, enjoy this I guess?? Because it may never happen again???
> 
> Trying to get into the tone of things, I'm asking you here to please take a minute to feel personally victimized by these lyrics: 
> 
> The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping  
> I dreamed I held you in my arms  
> But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken  
> And I hung my head and I cried
> 
> You are my sunshine, my only sunshine  
> You make me happy when skies are grey  
> You'll never know, dear, how much I love you  
> Please don't take my sunshine away
> 
> I'll always love you and make you happy  
> If you will only say the same  
> But if you leave me to love another  
> You'll regret it all some day
> 
> You are my sunshine, my only sunshine  
> You make me happy when skies are grey  
> You'll never know, dear, how much I love you  
> Please don't take my sunshine away
> 
> You told me once, dear, you really loved me  
> And no one else could come between  
> But now you've left me and love another  
> You have shattered all my dreams
> 
> You are my sunshine, my only sunshine  
> You make me happy when skies are grey  
> You'll never know dear, how much I love you  
> Please don't take my sunshine away

 

The boy is wilder than a coyote and nearly twice as thin. Arthur wonders vaguely if he is being punished when Dutch rides the boy back to camp on the back of his Arabian, a prized seat Arthur hasn’t been allowed to occupy since his beard came in. But Hosea is all teeth and easy in his saddle, so _something_ must be right, though Arthur still can’t shake the memory of the effort it all took; first to shoot the rope meant to strangle the boy by the neck until dead, _then_ to shoot the homesteaders who were set on hanging him, _and then_ to shoot the lawmen who were sore about the homesteaders who went and got themselves shot. What a waste it all seemed, to kill so many bystanders and make such a ruckus, when Dutch’s family could have done what they properly should have in the first place and simply rode on by the bad business entirely. But when Arthur and his fathers had crested the hill and seen the child with his legs kicking, and his teeth gnashing, and his black hair flying, Hosea had pulled up his Missouri Fox Trotter and given Dutch a look. They had collected him then and there, but Arthur could not stop wondering all the while at why exactly it is again he’s being punished.

 

When he clucks his skittish Appaloosa up parallel to Dutch to see what all this effort hath wrought, Arthur hears Hosea laugh behind him when the boy kicks out at his horse with a muddy boot and shoots him a look that stinks like shit. Dutch laughs too when the Appaloosa jerks away and dances to the side, nearly dumping Arthur on the ground. Dutch tells Arthur, who is now thoroughly incensed, in that Van Der Linde voice that’s calm and sure as morning light to stop being so sore, that everything will be just fine, son, in fact, it’ll be more than fine. _“Have a little faith!”_ He sings, and Arthur cannot help but listen like he always does. “ _Believe in me, Arthur, just like always, believe that everything is going just exactly according to my plan.”_

 

The boy does not yet fully realize that he has just been snatched back from the jaws of death. That without Dutch, he would already be six feet under the dry earth, or abandoned whole for the vultures to come pick clean out in a field somewhere. Arthur wonders if collecting this child is a game for Dutch, like a rich man will sometimes play for low stakes on a whim; for a pocket watch, or a silver belt buckle, or a fine heirloom ring. But _a boy is not a bauble_ , he thinks with a particularly undue level of personal investment. Arthur squints into the sun as he rides. He supposes he does not think he is going to much like whatever comes after this, and he frowns so darkly that Hosea tells Arthur by the look on his face he thinks that he has gone full idiot.

 

~

  
  


John is very bad at most things. At first, all of the horses are afraid of his strange, erratic movements, and he gets kicked in the head hard enough one day that Arthur is hopeful he may have gone mute and dumb, and that they can finally deposit him on a church step and never speak of him again. Under Hosea’s watchful eye, John heals. He is back to snapping at Arthur and knocking over water pails and burning coffee in no time at all.

 

The first time John nearly drowns while they’re out fishing together, Arthur considers just letting it happen. But even if he doesn’t want to listen, Hosea’s voice is always alive in Arthur’s mind, telling him to learn patience, that love is the thing that makes the plants grow, and the stars turn. He ends up wading into the stream and yanking John up out of the water by the collar like a scruffed and spitting cat. He gets punched as a reward for his heroics once they reach the shore. Arthur spends most of these kinds of nights grumbling and grousing at Hosea’s knee as they listen to Dutch read, but Hosea only ever really lends his son half an ear about John. It is obvious Hosea is unconcerned with the petty jealousies that go back and forth as often as moths between his children. Every time John is sent to gather wood for the campfire by himself, Arthur wonders if this is the time that a wolf will eat him.

 

Dutch and Hosea love John. It is an immediate and inescapable fact that Arthur has some trouble with. He feels it mostly in his stomach, but a little in his heart too, though he does not say this to anyone. It wouldn’t sting quite as keenly if Dutch in particular did not dote on John as if he were inexplicably not useless, like he once did to Arthur. Perhaps, Arthur thinks, it is a likeness in personality between Dutch and John that makes the difference, though he is loathe to compare Dutch to something as lowly as a greasy gutter tramp. Dutch loves John all the same, and Arthur cannot help but to love Dutch. Arthur has always known that Dutch has expressed a wish to expand their little family, saying that more hands would open different avenues for them to take, paths that could lead to a richer kind of lifestyle, both for them and for other poor drifters they might help along the way. They are still a small group after all, mostly women, though Miss Grimshaw and the soft-handed but hard-minded Annabelle are certainly more than capable. It’s just that John has the temper of a rattlesnake, and he shows no signs of possessing a brain insofar as Arthur has seen, and so he does not see the point in keeping the boy.

 

~

  
  


When John is fifteen, Dutch suggests putting a revolver in the boy’s hand. It seems a fool’s errand, and John is livid with the opinion that he can certainly be trusted, when earlier in the day he had accidentally let loose a valuable stolen Mustang Hosea had hobbled to sell, and then run off in shame by himself to pout about it afterward. The idea that John with a revolver in his hand might be the end of all of them is at the forefront of Arthur’s mind when Dutch comes close to his face, giving him a frown that Arthur knows is a command as he presses the gun into his palm. Dutch knows that Arthur is not a disobedient son, and so he takes the boy out for a lesson, despite his many worries.

 

They come back from the lesson that evening under a sky painted orange. Arthur is frowning even harder than Dutch this time, and John is in the saddle behind him, grinning like a crocodile.

 

If Arthur can say anything about Marston, it is this; the boy is a naturally serviceable shot.

 

~

 

 

Dutch laughs from outside his tent one day as Arthur and John are returning to camp with twin doe carcasses for Pearson. “What’s that, now?” Arthur demands, but Dutch only shakes his head with a grin, and lays a parentally heavy palm on Arthur’s shoulder for a moment to judge him. “Just admiring your shadow, my boy. _”_ He rumbles. When he is gone, Arthur turns around to look at John, who has a false look of innocence on his face that Arthur isn’t sure he likes, or understands.  

 

He notices it only after a while. When Arthur takes his hat off and places it on the table as he sits, John takes his hat off too. When Arthur bends to help Miss Grimshaw lift the heavy camp stew cauldron up off the ground, John turns and finds Hosea and helps him heft his saddle up onto the hitching post for an oiling. When Arthur curries his mare and coos at her, John hauls hay bales and refills water troughs. When Arthur cocks his head to the side and considers a problem, John tilts his head too, and looks off in the distance like he’s pondering the mysteries of the universe.  

 

~

  


When John is seventeen, and he has finally learned all his letters, Hosea takes him in the evenings to read aloud from some of the books he and Dutch keep in their heavy brass and leather chest. John’s voice has fully dropped, and about time for it, Arthur thinks. The boy has always been too skinny, like a rabbit you’d think twice about cleaning for a stew. He stayed lean even when the rest of him grew, making him seem girlish. He has a sound to him now like he’s been gargling gravel, which Arthur hopes John might use to his advantage in the game of talking off troublemakers. The feral kind of look he had as a boy is beginning to fade, less a whole-body exclamation and more every day like a wild flicker in his eye. He never did like to bathe much, and so in the glow of the campfire John’s greasy hair slicks down the sides of his dark face in shiny, twin black waterfalls. Hosea likes it best when he reads poetry, though Arthur has his doubts about if John fully understands their meaning.

 

John sits still during these sessions long enough for Arthur to get the shape of him down in his journal, scratching quietly on paper with his little nub of lead. Secretly, Arthur is just a little pleased that Hosea never suggested John try to learn the art of sketching. John is still John, after all, and even a prize pony can’t fake knowing in his soul the feel of a good line when he draws it.

 

~

  


The first time they take John robbing outside the little town of Bendelow, he’s got a Shoefield and a Granger’s and he puts six bullets in the skull of a concerned citizen about a foot away from blasting Hosea over with a double barreled shotgun. The take is incredible compared to some of their other recent jobs, two gold bars and $4,000 cash, stolen out of the safe of a greedy landowner responsible for leaving his tenants to the fate of a band of varmints much more devious in nature than Dutch’s Boys. Arthur’s soul soars when they circle back around to hand one of the gold bars over to a particularly deserving widow in the town, then tear off across the dry packed earth to drink and eat and dance and sing the night away. John gets good and fully drunk that night, and Arthur thinks for once that John is not as useless a stump of dry cactus as he had previously suspected.   

 

John sits with Arthur by the fire, a bottle of whiskey loose in his fingers, and they regail each other with retellings of the victories of the day. When the whiskey bottle is empty, Dutch and Hosea join them and they sing camp songs, and Arthur claps his hands on his thighs and smiles as heat lightning makes the sky crackle while a storm approaches from the west. When it begins to rain somewhere through their third bottle, everybody retires, and Arthur helps John back to his tent. John’s arm holds fast around Arthur’s shoulder right up until the moment he is dumped out across his musty sleeping roll, and he is snoring before Arthur can even pull down the tent flap.

 

~

  


Once, by now so long ago that Arthur is not sure he remembers too much about it, he did not live with Dutch and Hosea. Arthur remembers being beaten black and blue, and hating the hand behind the strap more than the devil himself. The picture of that man he still keeps close to him, close enough to remember how low a man can fall, and the price that fall can cost others. Arthur does not truly believe in torturing folk who have no means of protection. He is a moral man, despite his current line of work, and he has tried to leave that past behind him insofar that he can. Every day, he tries to expel all those sad old memories, and grow some others that are good. But he clings to other old memories too, contradictory as that may be. He remembers a little of his mother, and of Copper, the first dog he ever owned, as a stupid gamboling puppy. Dutch is forever and always saying that it is only important to be faithful to what really matters, and Arthur is prone to agree.

 

Arthur remembers Hosea putting a journal into his hand the year they met, the year Arthur turned fifteen. It takes him a further year to learn from his newfound fathers to read and write, but he thinks this is what made the difference. He thinks he has never loved something so much, or someone, for giving him a single gift. After all, Arthur is a complete buffoon with his words. At least, he is with the words he speaks out loud. With his journal, Arthur is free to take his time. Hosea suggests he take a log of his experiences not only with sentences, but with pictures too, and gives him a number of books to read on the various structures and techniques of drawing. Arthur gets bored with the technical mumbo jumbo almost immediately, but takes his fill of the diagrams. Soon enough, he is immersed in this new language. Drawing seems like a sort of magical poetry. At first, he is no good at it at all, and the shapes he tries to depict are nothing more than oblong lumps. But for three long summers, every time Hosea takes him out hunting, or Dutch insists upon going into civilization for a short stint, Arthur draws what he sees in his journal. Time builds habits, and habits build muscle memory, and memory builds love. Soon enough, Arthur feels that he is happiest with a bit of lead in his hand, and he takes to drawing everything of any interest that he sees.

 

Years later, when John and Arthur go out together on a hunting trip that ends up with John’s horse getting mauled by a boar, the two of them spend an afternoon stuck up a tree while they wait for the danger to pass. John is haggard and irritated, and complains the whole time, farting over the tree branch he’s slung over and waxing poetic about the comforts of their camp town home. With nothing better to do, Arthur pulls his journal out of his sachell and draws him, lit all around by spots of sunshine through the dappled patchwork of leaves. Arthur thinks of Hosea saying that the pencil should be guided by love; that _looking_ at a thing is not the same thing as _seeing_ a thing, and that this is the difference between a hack job and a man with any real modicum of talent. Arthur thinks about how inextricably that loyalty, faith and love are all tangled up together inside his heart, and he draws John’s portrait up in the tree as faithfully as he can, faithful enough even to remember the bits of twigs stuck fast in his wild black mop of dirty hair.

 

This is the first time Arthur thinks that he loves John. That he loves him truly, in all his wily ugliness, with the sun shining on his face through the tree branches. He thinks at first that he loves John maybe a little like he loves his horse, undivided and loyal, a thing he wishes to protect, and not at all in the way he loves Dutch or Hosea, who will always stand above them. But then Arthur thinks that loving John like he loves his horse is also not quite right either, and as his pencil scratches lines across paper, he dwells steadfastly on the knowledge that no matter how their lives might one day divert them, that John will always be his brother.

 

John sings a bawdy song to pass the time, and then they climb out of the tree at sunset and ride Arthur’s horse back to the camp together like when John was a child. They are both more than a little embarrassed.

 

~

  


He hears it sometimes, late in the night. It is the breath before the dawn when the air is chill and the camp hangs on a slow exhalation. Nobody sings or yells or cries or laughs. There is only the sound of the fire dying down with a muted crackle, and a litany of soft snores that approach from every direction, and of course the noises of the world outside. Arthur likes this time like he likes some of Dutch’s speeches, lying in his cot and listening to the shape of the nighttime around them. Arthur likes to listen. He has always liked to listen. He likes the rustle of the wind through tall grass, through leaves, the yipping of coyotes, and the calm grunts and huffs of their nearby tethered horses. Of course, he also hears everyone talk in their sleep. There’s not much privacy among them, and they have all learned to keep a respectful mental distance from these things, because physical distance is impossible. But Arthur still somehow never expects it when he hears John restless in his tent, turning over and over as if a rock were lodged in his spine.

 

John is more and more restless, these days. The sound is broken up by intermittent snorts of sleep, and so Arthur knows the boy is dreaming. And yet it still shoots down Arthur’s gut like a knife whenever he hears John say his name. Sometimes the word is angry, an admonition from a frustrated brother in need of help. Other times, it is a quieter appeal, a lonely little thing that Arthur knows all too well from the reflection of it inside his own heart. This would be quite enough all by itself, but every now and again, John will sigh _“Arthur,”_ and turn over in a way that Arthur is sure all the way down to the roots of his teeth is dangerous. It is on these nights that Arthur stops liking the quiet camp so much, and grows restless in his own bed too. He shifts ceaselessly, uneasy and heartsick, until dawn breaks apart the dream and he rises before anyone else to begin his chores for the day.   

 

~

  


Snow is like a blanket across the hills by the time they ride into the next town. With a fresh camp and a fresh start, the gang splits up to range for supplies and the chance for new opportunities. Arthur figures it has been a decent enough length since he has seen a real barber, and he takes Marston with him too, to see about getting some of that ragged, girly mop of his hacked down to size. When they get there, Arthur pays for a clean shave down to the skin and enough of a trim to pull his hairline up off his neck again, but John shys away when it is his turn, then insists with vigor on keeping his hair long. “ _You look like a goddamn oil slick!_ ” Arthur yells, and John offers him some choice words in return that end with the barber asking them both to kindly please remove themselves from his business.

 

Outside, they light cigarettes, and John stares with antsy anxiety at the whores leaning on the porch across the street. Arthur can’t unsee the way his eyes skate across them, up and down, then linger on the parts he likes better than others.

 

John is nineteen now, and though something in his stomach turns at the thought of it, Arthur knows the boy is long overdue for a visit with a woman of the night. His irrational bouts of anger have become far too commonplace. As a child, John was a terror, but John these days is a testosterone-addled brawling machine. He hits first, and rarely asks questions after, more interested in the white-hot satisfaction of landing a square punch than why exactly it is that he’s punching. By the time Arthur was John’s age he had already started a family, albeit by accident. Arthur thinks of those two crosses buried in the yard as well as he possibly can, if he can bear the hurt of thinking of them at all. But now, things are different. Arthur looks at John’s bristly profile as a cloud of cigarette smoke drifts up through the jut of his bangs, then collects beneath the brim of his hat.

 

Arthur pays a $3 whore to take John upstairs for two hours, and at first John protests. She’s dark haired and pretty enough, but bored with the men as John scrambles at Arthur’s arm to hold him back, every inch of him the nervous, nearly frightened brat that clung to Arthur’s back when Arthur used to take him out riding too fast, supposedly looking for rabbits or anything else to eat, though secretly it had always been just to give John a little bit of a scare.

 

“Arthur, please!” John insists, and Arthur laughs and says “ _there, there, boy_ ” as if he were talking to a horse, and he shakes his head and turns John around and shoves him towards the stairs. But when John stops stubborn as a mule at the bottom step and turns to grip one of Arthur’s wrists, Arthur pauses, his grin fading. “Don’t leave.” John begs, and Arthur stops smiling entirely.

 

In the upstairs hall of the inn, Arthur leans against the wall next to the room John has entered with the whore. He folds his arms stiffly across his chest and tries not to listen to the stifled, breathy noises of John on the other side of the door as he finally becomes a man. Arthur thinks, with perhaps not quite as much conviction as he should, that he is not such a cruel man as to leave his little brother alone when he is scared, and certainly not after he has deigned to beg.

 

~

  
  


John is very good at some things. He is twenty years old and handsome in the kind of way a scraggly, beleaguered wolf might be, and by now he is excellent at getting whores to offer him their services for free. He has a certain dumb charm all women seem to like, and more than once Arthur has seen even townsfolk approach him with a twinkle of hope that John gladly accepts at every opportunity. Sometimes this behavior gets John thrown through the window of a saloon, but most times John pursues this particular physical endeavor with a gleeful vigor, and Arthur notices with a certain level of chagrin that releasing his seed on a regular basis has done nothing to cool down Marston’s generally scorching attitude. He is still dumber than a sack of hammers, but he has proven by this point that he is more than a competent marksman, and he rides as well as any man in the gang. It is the biggest sign of their transient nature that he is a real gunslinger now, that he can hold his own with the best of them, and it means that John is finally and truly one of them. These days, John and Arthur race for the sport of it when they can afford the time to rest the horses for a day or two afterward, and Arthur gets the feeling that Dutch likes seeing his two favorite sons return to camp sweat-slick as the horses and glowing with strength.

 

Arthur finds that he’s also growing hot headed these days. At least that’s the feel he has when he looks himself up and down in a mirror, whenever he’s got the chance. He tries to counteract this feeling with acts of charity, to temper the fire he feels burning inside him and to keep it from flashing out and burning anyone else. There are many more women in the camp now, after Annabelle’s death, after Bessie’s death, and he tries to be tender to them. He is too aware of them, of their fragility and their strength at once. Something about John is bleeding into him, and the cure only ever seems to be pulling himself up into the saddle and riding as fast and hard as he can, until some days he thinks if he keeps riding he can find the edge of the world. Other days, he thinks that the vast expanse of wide open country must go on forever, and that paradise must lie to the west, but he knows in theory that it is only California, though he has never seen it.

 

Though he is loathed to acknowledge it, something else is amiss as well these days. John has grown very good at looking at Arthur, especially when he thinks that Arthur is otherwise distracted. Most of the time, Arthur only catches John in the act as a flicker, an afterthought almost on the edge of his senses. But Arthur is a quick learner. He knows that John has always admired him, always _looked up to him_ in many ways, but something has changed of late. He learns to feel John’s eyes on his back, and then he realizes with a startle that John is looking at him _most of the time_. If he stares too long, sometimes it seems that John froths up an attitude and goes off to read a book alone in the trees, or he volunteers for camp guard and grabs a Repeater and goes to stalk around the grounds in a protective circle.  He is an outlier in physicality like Arthur has always felt like on the inside, and sometimes John only wants to be alone with his thoughts. Arthur wonders at what John wonders, and neither of them say a word about it.

 

There is a new girl in camp, Abigail, with dark hair like the woman who took John for the first time in the inn. Abigail was also a woman of service once, before Uncle of all people collected her away from her unfortunate old life. Arthur is more aware than ever of the eyes of the camp on him, and so when she begins to stare at him in much the same way that John has been staring, he invites her to go out riding with him. John invites Mary-Beth out riding with him the next day, and Arthur is not sure he likes the airy way John laughs a little too loud and parades her on his horse past him on their way back into camp, and so within the week Abigail is sleeping in Arthur’s tent.

 

~

  
  


Arthur is tired. He does not know where the fire has gone. He is not sure why he is so tired all the time, bone deep and weary, only that he is. He rises with the sun and rides to a stream where he jumps naked into the cold water, and the shock of it revives him a little. He returns to the camp as Mr. Pearson hangs the stew cauldron and begins dumping foraged vegetables into the basin off his chopping board. Arthur kicks Uncle as he passes him, and smirks a little when the old man startles, then begins to complain. Dutch is already awake, and crackling classical music pours out of his tent along with the wet sounds of Molly O’Shea paying Dutch his morning respects.

 

John and Abigail are sitting drinking coffee together on a log by the fire. Arthur wonders if they have become friends while he wasn’t looking, and a gentler part of him hopes a little that the answer is yes.

 

“It’s a fine mornin’, Arthur, ain’t it?” Abigail glows as she turns to smile up at him. Her life has much improved since her transition to the camp. She’s thankful, and Arthur can see it in her face. He can also feel it in his bedroll at night. And sometimes in the morning, though not this morning. He supposes leaving John to amuse her while he clears out the fog in his head is probably what’s for the best. Arthur is honest to a fault; he has never felt deserving of attention from a woman, or indeed anybody else, and briefly his guilt spikes for abandoning a duty he had taken on purely out of selfishness. It would be the proper, decent thing to release Abigail from any duty to him in return. The threat of getting her with child is often large enough to impede his nighttime conquests anyway. It is only that he is lonely. More lonely maybe than he can say.

 

Hosea is sitting at the camp table reading, with his book settled on one elegant knee. Hot coffee sits steaming in his tin cup, and he is sipping on it with a thoughtful look as Arthur comes up on him. Hosea has always known his son, and when Arthur doesn’t speak, the old man sets his cup down and looks up from beneath the maroon brim of his hat. They regard each other a long moment before Hosea suggests, “Suppose you and I go fishing today?”  

 

Hosea has always known what to say.

 

~

  
  


That winter is especially difficult. The land is frozen as hard as glass beneath the snow, and wolves criss-cross the frontier in packs larger than Arthur can remember. He is afraid to let John go out riding alone, and insists everyone travel in pairs or more. Mac and Davey are trigger happy and in a brotherly competition for the pursuit of the largest wolf pelt, but their antics consistently scare away the scarce remaining elk, and eventually Dutch forbids them from joining any ranged hunting party until the first melt comes.    

 

One day, Hosea takes John, Arthur, and Bill out on an excursion to track an out-of-season bear. It is an American Brown. Signs of it are everywhere, in bark-gouged trees and scat tracks and in broken branches, all evidence they had spotted initially while on other business. A bear awake in snow should be an easy kill, Hosea says, insisting it will have left it’s wits behind it in it’s den as some unnatural impulse spits it back out into the wintery world at entirely the wrong time. When Arthur sees the brown furry crest of it’s back in the distance, he takes the shot.

 

The body turns out to be only a woman in a bear pelt coat. Arthur is horrified, and they spend the next day searching the area for a residence from which she might have come. When they turn up nothing, Bill and Arthur chip a shallow hole into the frozen ground and they bury her without a christian name to mark her resting place.

 

Arthur is inconsolable, if not completely silent. He has taken the life of a woman before, in moments of danger when he was forced to make a choice between a stranger and his adoptive family. Arthur has killed, and he does not believe he will stop killing, but something about the shape of her, so small and twisted into her pelt as she laid bloody in the snow, will not leave Arthur alone. The weather gets worse, and he drinks more heavily for a while than he should, pressed in on all sides by cold and guilt and shame. He notices John’s staring until he cannot tolerate that either for a single moment more, but in the end it turns out that whiskey is the cure for that ailment too.

 

~

  


At the pit of his self-loathing, one evening Arthur breaks open the lid on his clothes chest and retrieves a stack of letters written to him in a delicate hand by Mary Linton. Sometimes he thinks he misses her fiercest of all, when she was still _his_ Mary, Mary Gillis. He recalls loving her as he reads over her letters, letters that he has _kept_ , despite the fact that all of them, each down to the very last, are tinged with accusations that Arthur will never be capable of living a normal life.

 

Arthur reads her words, and something colder than the winter settles into his chest as he comprehends their meaning. Even then, she could see what he could not, that Dutch’s gang would forever hold him in place by the bonds Arthur had forged within it.  He had loved her something strong, but Mary was incapable of accept Arthur’s family obligations in the end, so she had eschewed his lifestyle and finally left him to marry another law abiding gentleman. In her eyes, Arthur would always be a criminal, not just physically, but morally as well. She could never see the value of his love for her as anything less than _the most_ important point in his life. She had never been able to appreciate the love he harbored for his made family, or to have a care for the responsibilities that such a love required that he shoulder. She would call him a sentimental fool if she could see his heart now; about how he longed for her company, but also for the shape of this other life, of Dutch and Hosea, and of John astride his horse at his side, in a way the young son Arthur had left buried in the yard could never be.

 

Even now, Arthur sometimes likes to roll that old feeling over and over in his mind, the feeling of loving something so much it hurts. He burns for that old sensation. He thinks of loving something so utterly that he takes no further thought for consequence. He supposes, he has _always_ been a sentimental man. It was a boy’s heart Mary had once upon a time fallen in love with, and Arthur is so very different now, except for only the fact that he hungers to give to his loyalty. He must always remember to be loyal to what matters. That, at least, he hopes will never change.

 

~

 

 

Summertime again, and they are nearing the foothills of the Grizzlies. The gang has grown larger still, and Abigail has grown bored of Arthur. He supposes it is because of his lack of interest in her nether regions, though he cannot deny he is the kind of man to tightly hold his feelings back. She is in Sean’s tent now, though Arthur has seen them arguing. He traces the outline of Sean in his journal, but makes no mention of it with words, other than to jot down a deceptively brief _‘Abigail moved along- suppose it is for the best.’_. He feels nothing other than friendship towards her, and a light relief at being left again to his own devices.

 

Now that he is more often alone than not, John joins Arthur out on his excursions at every available opportunity. At first, Arthur finds this annoying, barking at him again and again to find someplace else to be underfoot. But against his better judgement, eventually he relaxes into the new pattern.

 

John is surprisingly useful sometimes, and there’s the added bonus that he pays it no mind if Arthur chooses not to talk, unlike Dutch, or even Hosea, who are forever and always prompting Arthur to do something or say something. Instead, John fills the empty space up in the middle with mad ramblings of his own, of every sort of tone and color. Other times John is more than capable of holding his tongue too, and they move together in a comfortable unison to flank a buffalo midhunt, or to rifle through the drawers of an abandoned homestead, or to sit out a storm in a cave over a smoky fire full of pungent burning conifers. It is just the poultice Arthur’s disquieted, yearning heart requires, and it is in these quiet days that he thinks again, very privately, that he loves John Marston a little more than he properly should.

 

John is not Mary Linton after all, and John is not his dead son Isaac rotting away six feet below the earth, but Arthur supposes that to him, John is a little part of the both of them; that he is a collection of all of Arthur’s feelings on how to love. Until this point, this realization has struck Arthur with an acute sense of wrongness and discomfort, but one night when they have been out ranging for more than a week and John silently crawls into his tent, Arthur thinks that he does not care so much about propriety anymore. He doesn’t speak or move, but lets John curl protectively around his back, and as Arthur drifts to sleep he thinks that no woman has ever touched him in such a way.   

 

~

 

 

Dutch and Hosea are arguing when Arthur and John return to camp after a three day ride that becomes a four day ride, after they pass a lake and John suggests Arthur teach him how to swim, to swim _proper_ , _for real_ this time, and not like any number of their other failed fishing excursions. It is an unmitigated disaster, but Arthur is now the proud bearer of the memory of hauling John’s skinny naked body up from the depths of the water and collecting him against his chest in a discombobulated sputter, so he thinks it was not a completely worthless effort.

 

“ _-told you, it was always a bad idea! From the very beginning!_ ” Hosea’s voice is deadly sharp with accusation, and Dutch’s shadow cuts a mean slash across the white canvas of his tent as he storms away from the conversation entirely. _“Where have you been?_ ” Dutch barks at his sons when he sees them, and a moment later Hosea appears around the corner of the tent to give them a long, lingering look tinged with worry.

 

It is not often that Arthur, much less anyone else, sees Dutch and Hosea arguing. They keep their disputes more private between them than the camp leger, and seeing any corner of a fight sends shivers up Arthur’s spine.

 

The next day Dutch declares that John and Karen and the Callander brothers will come with him to look into a lead about some property he has been eyeballing, a bit of earth in Montana of their very own to finally plant a steak in and claim as their savage utopia. In the meantime, Hosea will strike out with Arthur looking to befriend any local law enforcement. Any smoke screen will be better than none to cover their move as they plant the seeds of this proposed new life, and with a little gold left over in their coffers from their last bank job, Arthur and Hosea can afford to buy some decent clothes and really milk the part.

 

Hosea is a huckster of the highest caliber and so it is no wonder this will be his job, but Arthur wonders with a dark rumble in his stomach why he is being sent along too. Everybody knows Arthur is too honest, and no good at all at playing a farcical role if too many lines are required. But then he thinks, Bill and the Callanders are no good at play acting either on account of their blabbermouths, and John only stops blustering when he’s playing poker or trying to get up a woman’s skirt, and that after all Arthur might actually, really be the best choice. He thinks again that he should be worried when he sees Dutch speaking very close with John an hour later at the far edge of camp. And then he _knows_ a worry _for sure_ when he sees one, when Dutch’s words during their conversation turns the look in John’s eyes from concern straight into bitter embarrassment.  

 

~

  


 

It is a month and a half before Hosea and Arthur make it back to camp. The local law it turns out had become embroiled with a faction of civil war deserters holed up in a camp outside the town of Obadiah, and Hosea could not quite help himself from the game of pitting them against one another. Arthur actively admires and appreciates Hosea’s craft, and when the gentleman thief is in his element it is a little like watching the devil’s own surgeon hard at work. When both factions concluded in a shoot-out that resulted in the death of every major player, Hosea declares it a draw and they ride out of town again with nobody the wiser other than the two of them, both knowing that they had yet again just successfully struck down two birds with one stone.    

 

There is a new man in camp when they return, Javier Escuella, a former revolutionary and chicken thief with an appropriately dramatic affection for Dutch’s ethos, and he is settled enough by now for Arthur to notice that Dutch’s party must have returned a decent amount of time before them. He is struck again when he sees that Abigail has moved her things into John’s tent. Arthur lingers to stare at that for an uncharacteristic minute, entirely missing the sympathetic look shot at him from Miss Grimshaw, and then he is hit with a sick sink of the gut and thinks he knows the reason for Dutch and Hosea’s argument.

 

~

 

 

Arthur does not see John again for three days. When he spots him for the first time, he is sat on a log in the dark, far away at the outposter’s fire where the underside of his grisled chin has been lit ablaze with a glowing pool of yellow. He looks good and truly lost in thought, and so Arthur leaves him right where he is. He knows better than to interrupt the rare, original sight of John Marston’s brain working overtime when he sees it.

 

~

 

Javier Escuella turns out to be an excellent drinking buddy, and he is exactly the sort of robust fellow Arthur feels can keep up a conversation while also keeping his head up off the bar. He is also a talented musician, which Arthur greatly appreciates since he has sung the same fifteen camp songs he knows more times than he cares to count, and has heard Dutch’s five favorite classical melodies even more times than that. Javier brings a few new tawdry little ditties to the table, and quite a number of songs in Spanish that Arthur can only pick out the meaning of one or two words from, but they are vivacious and invigorating, and it is a good feeling Arthur hasn’t felt in months. They talk for hours about the revolution Javier has just fled, and the way all men go about the business of killing one another, and it is also a nicety that he seems to adore the ground Dutch walks on, so in that way again Arthur feels that they are also the same. He briefly wonders how this must all look, for John the grouser to sit in silence, and for Arthur the thinker to go on like a fool for hours about nothing, but in the end he decides it is better not to know or care.

 

~

 

 

Arthur is sitting with Bill and Javier playing dominoes in the evening when the noise of John and Abigail’s love making becomes unbearable. They pause to listen in a temporarily dumbstruck silence at Abigail’s increasingly high pitched screams of passion, and Javier exchanges a look with Arthur when it sounds like something wooden shatters. A ceramic something smashes in the tent quickly after, and then the whole debacle is abruptly cut off as John comes loud as a roaring bear.The whole camp grows quiet for a mortified pause, and Bill lets his eyes skate back to their game,  a wily grin lit across his face. “ _Ride ‘er hard and put ‘er away wet, huh, Johnnyboy?”_ he snorts quietly into his cup.  

 

Later, when John has wandered out in his union suit past dinnertime to beg a scrap of bread and a turnip off of Pearson as a late night snack, he and Arthur finally see one another again. Arthur sits by the fire by himself, his rustler hat tilted far enough forward that it takes until he feels the familiar tingle of John’s eyes for him to look all the way up. His journal is temporarily forgotten as his hands go slack, and he doesn’t smile, though he doesn’t frown either. John apparently is prepared for a chastisement, and when nothing comes, instead he looks incensed. In fact, he grows so ornery under Arthur’s silence that he looks close to popping. Arthur is sure he is about to get a real earful, which has always been John’s way, but John says nothing, and so Arthur keeps saying nothing, and in the end John finally turns and walks away in a huff without a single spoken word.

 

Arthur thinks that this is a very childish game, and that John has not grown up so much as all that. He thinks that Dutch has taught John a certain egocentric bluster which does the moral shape of him no favors. But he also thinks about the afternoon he listened to the whore with the dark hair take John’s virginity, and how Arthur is almost sure somewhere among John’s moans and groans that he had heard his own name, and he wonders what sort of game John thinks all of this really is.  

 

~

 

 

Half the time that John and Abigail are out and about, their conversation is loud and ill-mannered. It is almost funny how they are alike, both brutally pigheaded about some things to the point of screaming, and loving to a fault about others. Arthur forces himself to admit they make a good pair. He does not doubt that Abigail would not have made himself a good wife, and he wonders if she might do what she couldn’t for Arthur instead for John. Arthur tries to dwell on Dutch and Hosea’s relationship when he thinks of this. Both his fathers had women in their lives, women they loved, and at least in Hosea’s case, a woman he desired to start a family with. Because the world is singularly cruel, Arthur must now think of his aunts Anabelle and Bessie in the past tense, but through it all Dutch and Hosea’s bond had never wavered. Arthur does not know for sure, not really, but he suspects Hosea is the kind of man who is not above offering himself, _personally_ , as penance for past indiscretions. And though he thinks this privately and would never speak it aloud, he does not think Dutch is the kind of man to turn that penance down. He has always had his share of questions about the curious couple, but Arthur has never felt he had the right to seek out those answers. That business is their own, but when they sit close together and Dutch lays a hand on Hosea’s, he thinks he does not need to ask. Perhaps, just maybe, Arthur and John will be just fine.

 

The other half of the time John and Abigail are violently audible, it is like before and they are fornicating loud enough to scare the birds out of the trees. At one point it grows annoying enough that Sean starts throwing pots at John’s tent, and Bill starts howling like a werewolf. Hosea takes John aside half a week into it and has a talk with him about self control and personal reservations, but John is in his twenties and apparently has something he’s spitting mad about that he needs proving, and so Hosea’s talk goes largely unheeded. Arthur pretends he knows nothing about it, and  every time John puts Abigail through her paces and then goes to stalk like a virile lion around the camp, Arthur sighs and tries to push his guts back down out of his throat and reaches for a book. But then he sees Dutch cast John the fond glance of a proud father and he feels the bile rise right back up again, no matter what he does.

 

After that, it is always the fact that John won’t look at him anymore, not a once since that last time by the fire, that is what drives Arthur up on his horse. Every time he hears Abigail’s voice begin it’s evening litany, Arthur knows it is only a matter of time before he is up and out of camp for the duration of the evening.

     

 

~

 

 

It is late into the night again, that same time of night that Arthur used to love once, and he is returning from relieving himself in the woods when he is suddenly slammed into a tree. His first reaction is to reach for his guns before he remembers them sitting cold and far away back on his bed, but after a grappled moment with his dark interloper Arthur realizes with a start that it is only John. His fists relax their grip slightly in his duster jacket.  

 

“Hellfire, Marston, you want me to rip you limb from limb?” Arthur chastises, but before he has the opportunity to work out any further argument, John’s tongue is in his mouth. It is a complete surprise, despite the fact that he knows deep down it should not be, and Arthur cannot collect himself before he feels John’s eager hands at the button of his pants. This alone is plenty enough motivation to wake up his limbs, and then he is grabbing John up between his hands and kissing him back without quite knowing his own actions, fast and hard enough that he hopes he can outrun the entire horrible momentous truth of it all.

 

John groans into Arthur’s mouth like he’s been sucker punched, and his arms wrangle around Arthur in complicated knots until he doesn’t wait for Arthur’s permission anymore and just stuffs one whole hand down the front of his pants. Arthur is not sure he has ever been this hard this fast, and he lets John grab onto him for a few rasping seconds, their faces rubbing sweat salt into each other in a moment that Arthur is sure he will remember for the rest of his life. But then he’s grunting again, “ _-No-_ Listen to me, boy, _I said no-_ ” and then he’s using his strength to wrench John’s body fully away from his own.

 

John is livid even in the dark. “ _Damn it, Arthur,_ don’t make me say it!” He appeals, and it  is the epitome of frustration. They breathe too hard on each other until Arthur lets the most jealously guarded part of himself call the foregone conclusion he knows he would never have been able to acknowledge in the broad light of day. He nods haltingly, only once, and when John makes to jerk back into action, Arthur only grips him harder, then turns them in a stumbling sidestep to press John’s back up against the tree. John’s silhouette broadcasts confusion until the moment Arthur sinks to his knees, and then the realization is a slow, rumbling groan that cuts past his teeth and hangs heavy with want and understanding.

 

More than anything from this night, Arthur thinks he will remember John’s hands on his face. Arthur wants so badly to love something, to direct his adoration through the proper channels. And he has wanted, for so long by now, to put a name to this thing between him and the other brother under Dutch that he had never asked for. Arthur thinks as John’s fingers trace his jaw and thread through his hair that it is no wonder the women always seem to leave him. Arthur is always afraid that he spoils things, every single time, and that his stupidity and his callousness mean he cannot be loved. But this time, with John, who he holds more precious than all before him, he wants to make an impression. He thinks if he worships just a little harder than the second before that something inside him will finally break, and that he will finally be able to understand what it really means to follow a credence all the way through to it’s natural conclusion. Every part of him sings to be loyal to the things that matter. It is all that Arthur believes in, it is all he has _ever_ believed in, and he presses that mantra into John with his tongue and his voice and his heart, and with every single one of his fingers.

 

Because he is nothing like a woman, Arthur does not attempt to talk to John in this moment as if he were one. But he is also not so sure he quite remembers how to do this, having only learned once, long ago with an adventurous room of prostitutes in his earlier years. Everything is strange, but Arthur is committed to this moment, committed to John, and he knows that in future he will look back on this during many long, hungry nights alone and he will be nourished. He thinks back on his earliest impressions of John, and tries to coax him along with the only language he knows that’s left to him; “ _You’re alright, boy,_ ” he reassures John, as gently as if he were taking a startled filly in hand. “ _Easy_ ,” he murmurs, “ _easy, easy.”_ And it is almost too soon that John spills himself with a moan across Arthur’s lips.

 

Enough, Arthur thinks. Enough. _It is enough_ , the thought comes in with a contradictory pang of hunger. It is enough that this has happened at all. He insists to himself that even if they never see each other again, he can go to his grave satisfied with this. Just with this. But as Arthur thinks the words, and John’s hands trace his scalp with a sudden hidden tenderness, he knows deep down that this will never be true.  

 

“Ain’t nothing fair.” John murmurs, and Arthur doesn’t yet know the half of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Summer rolls into fall rolls into winter again, but this time the camp is well situated for it. There is ample food in the surrounding foothills, and for a while, all is well. Dutch has grown suspicious of law enforcement tracking their endeavor to purchase the Montana property, and so he has abandoned the effort for now, but in the meantime they still have a little money and with such an abundant season of deer, rabbit, turkey, and elk to feed them, it seems advantageous to pass the season exactly where they are. It is a much needed respite for everyone, and for Arthur, for whom perhaps other than when he was first found as a boy, it is the happiest time in his life. 

 

As their small community has grown, Arthur finds more and more all the time that he is fiercely fond of the little microcosm that is their camp. He has always felt that Dutch and Hosea are his family, but now he feels that the camp is really and truly his home, wherever it may choose to be. He does his best to see everyone happy and satisfied, if not out of a particular love of work, but more from his simple love for tending to a thing and watching it grow. These days, Pearson’s tent is always strung about the ceiling with bundles of wild root vegetables, next to hanks of savory jerkeys dry rubbed with foraged spices. They have discovered a field where potatoes grew in the fall in abundance, and a healthy stash of them are stored in a cool, dark burrow out back behind the cook wagon. Nighttime is full of the smells of roasting venison in savory stew, and mornings are rich with the aroma of brewing coffee. Everyone is content. 

 

Karen and Mary-Beth have taken up weaving, foraging different tough, dry grasses and tying them together into floor mats and reinforcements for some of the leakier tents. They have the craft of it down but not the style, so when Tilly eventually cultivates an interest in their new hobby, the weavings go from utilitarian to beautiful. She is a consummate craftsman, and Arthur is fond of Tilly particularly, though he is only a little unsure if this is because Dutch saw something in her first. Arthur is forever taking cues from Dutch, who took Tilly aside after they first rescued her and taught her  _ in particular _ to read, just like he had with John and Arthur, but Arthur thinks even if Dutch had not done so, he would still have seen the clever twinkle in her eye and loved her for it. 

  
  


A few new faces have also grown common in Arthur’s thoughts and deeds. Maybe it is his good mood as of late, but he is sure he has made some fast friends for life. The first is a noble fellow named Charles Smith, mixed in breed and full of pride, with the kind of look in his eye that speaks entirely of a man who understands the high cost of going it alone, perhaps even more than most folk among them. He seems fascinated with the ragtag collection of vagabonds Dutch has collected, and there is something distinctly peaceful in his gaze when he sits by the fire to listen to the stories of past loves and losses. He is a warrior and a bit of a poet, Arthur thinks, if not with his words, then with his actions. Arthur thinks he is an old soul, and that he would like very much for Charles to know him better. 

 

Next is young Lenny Summers. Arthur thinks with a hiccup of amusement how Lenny was at first a mystery to Hosea, how the two circled around one another with cautious curiosity, before Hosea learned that Lenny could read, and that he had a very particular (and in Arthur’s opinion, a bit unusual and sensitive) way of looking at the world. From then on, it is only philosophical discussions under the stars between the old and the young man, and Arthur thinks Lenny has just as much to teach as his clever old huckster father. 

 

Arthur is very fond of Hosea, but he thinks he will grow more and more fond of Lenny and Charles as time goes on, until the point that they may one day stand equal in affection in Arthur’s eyes. Charles earns Arthur’s respect every day, and Lenny, like Charles, is also wise beyond his years, but there is a hint of John in him too that Arthur can see. Lenny is young and robust and full of a desire to please others by showing off his strengths. Arthur thinks that he wants to watch over young Lenny, to tend to his situation and watch him grow like he does the camp, like a garden, like an idea. Arthur thinks of him and some of the younger ones as a flock he must tend to, like the fragile young Jenny, found on the side of the road, and Sean, and Karen, and Tilly and Mary-Beth, and yes, like John too. And so when he sees Lenny and Hosea talking together about deep truths, Arthur thinks there is nothing quite so satisfying as watching his own shepherd and one of his flock making their hearts known to one another.

 

~

 

On the corner of that bright time, Arthur watches only one shadow. Dutch has collected one  _ other _ straggler; one he is showing the particular kind of favor towards that he has always only ever reserved for his two favorite sons. Micah Bell is a lone wolf, if Arthur could dignify him with a title that’s so grand. After thinking on it awhile, Arthur decides that Dutch must  _ like _ wolves. Hosea is a wolf, after all, cunning and cautious and dignified, but sometimes too bold because he knows exactly what he is, and hubris is prone from time to time to take him over. John is a wolf too, though he is the kind of wolf that waits until dark to pick off your livestock with a deadly speed. He is gone before you knew he was there, all stringy snarling and patches of fur flying back into the night, though he leaves a trail in his wake a mile wide. But Micah is the kind of wolf that lives alone though the long winters by waiting for a man to lie down in his deathbed before he eats him. Micah is a real killer. He is a poacher, and a thief. They are all thieves here, Arthur makes no pretense about that, but he cannot imagine that one who simpers and grovels and licks Dutch’s teeth in the fashion that Micah does is anything less than the dagger waiting for the right time to slip hot through flesh and take the killing blow. 

 

Arthur can practically  _ taste _ Hosea’s disapproval. It is a coppery gush across his tongue, and nobody says a word to Dutch about it.  

 

~

  
  


It is a strange thing, Arthur thinks some days as he and John ride out across the sun-crusted snow, that he has come to love this greasy, moody boy as much he does now. They have come so far since the day that Dutch took the shot which snapped the rope around Marston’s neck. It was a lifetime ago; John’s entire lifetime. Arthur supposes it could be the camp’s streak of recent good fortune, but the world just seems a little brighter as of late. He suspects, this is not only because of the food. John is everything to Arthur, and even when John doesn’t bathe for weeks, or farts uncontrollably by the fire, or even as he continues to scream with Abigail in his tenor that sounds like a rock has been gouged clean across his throat, Arthur thinks that he has come up in the world well enough. He cannot blame John for keeping Abigail in his tent, John is an unquenchable sort, after all, though thankfully his need to prove his virility has ebbed and he no longer feels the deep desire to announce their sexual conquests so vocally to the camp. In almost every way, John is still a child, selfish, arrogant, quick to punch and slow to apologize, but he has cultivated a code of ethics he is slowly but surely attempting to live up to, as honestly as he looks up to Arthur and tries to live by his example. Arthur is permanently convinced that nobody should look up to such a sorry sight as himself, but John’s trust and faith are gifts Arthur is not sure what he has done to merit, and to him they are more precious than gemstones. 

 

They do not speak of that night in the woods, though Arthur knows John still sometimes thinks on it from the way his eyes will skate away from Arthur after he is a little too deep in his whiskey. They only speak of what needs to be done for the camp, who needs help with what, where they will go, how they will get something, when is the right time to get it. John drinks with Sean and Lenny in the evenings now and again, and Arthur looks at the young trio with a fond parental air; this gives him the occasional scorch of guilt, too,  as once, like the thief in the night that he is, Arthur stole something youthful and vital which did not precisely belong to him. Arthur supposes he was born a thief, and he tries to forgive himself a little for this, though he knows he never fully will. That memory is too tender, and much too precious to surrender, even to the most cunning version of himself.

 

~

  
  


There is an evening when Charles returns to camp with a glitter in his eye, and he informs Dutch’s Sons that he has spotted an albino moose. It is a rare creature indeed and Charles is reverent when he speaks of it. The consensus is unclear if they will go out to hunt the beast, or if they will ride out merely to observe it in all it’s majestic countenance. The camp is already well stocked with food, and there is no want for additional pelts to keep their family warm; it is the rarely seen and less often spoken of  _ pleasure hunt _ , if it is anything at all.  Charles immediately requests Arthur’s company, to which he complies with pleasure, but when John volunteers too, Dutch takes a long moment to look at the group as he thinks. Arthur can practically hear him counting in his head as he looks between Arthur and John, one, two, _ three- three hunters,  _ instead of  _ just two _ , before he nods in approval and gives the trip his blessing. Arthur packs up for the excursion and mounts his horse without daring to look over his shoulder at Hosea, whom he is sure is watching them go with an invested level of attention. 

 

~

  
  


On the second day out, they have not yet discovered the moose, and the weather takes a turn for the worse. There is a heavy snow that collapses all their tents in the early hours of the morning, and all three men spend the next few hours battling the unexpected onslaught, shoveling their supplies free and clearing a path for the horses. They make it to a nearby cave system just as the storm renews afresh, and Charles begins to laugh just as John begins to groan.  

 

The weather is difficult on the horses, but John has always had a weak spot when it comes to the extreme cold; he hates it entirely. He cannot stop his endless prattling about how his arms and legs grow too stiff with frost, or how he loathes down to his very core the sensation of his boots filling up with the slush of melting ice. John is a creature of hot weather, a summer beast through and through, and Arthur smiles a little ruefully at how pitiful he becomes when he is so out of his element. 

 

“ _ Fine then _ , hide in your hole like a pair of gophers,” Charles declares with judgement in his voice, before giving Dutch’s favorite boys a rueful, if almost mocking look. He is too entranced by the idea of the albino, he does not want to miss this opportunity.  Arthur thinks it is a wonder he still wants to track a thing white as snow through a storm that will certainly cover up it’s tracks, no matter how massive the animal may be, but Charles is good at being alone, and John looks close to needing a good old fashioned carrying home like one hauls a sack of potatoes, and so with a hint of disappointment Arthur waves Charles on and watches as he heads back out into the storm again. 

 

They are practiced in camping out in caves, and so despite the cold, John and Arthur make quick work of pitching their new site. The cave is large, and the sound of the wind whistling across the rocky mouth is nearly deafening in the echo of the main chamber, but soon enough a fire is roaring, and a little life returns to John’s cheeks and hands when they have sat beside it and passed a whiskey bottle between the two of them. 

 

At first, Arthur is unhappy to discover a strange mood has settled in the cold silence. John tries his best to use the excuse of cold to hide his tender mood, but it is obvious that he is nervous and skittish as a colt, and he keeps shooting Arthur secretive glances which after a while Arthur finds positively obnoxious. “You got something to say, Marston? Then you had better  _ say it. _ ” Arthur snaps, a little too harshly than he means, and John looks wounded and shakes his head.  _ “Nossir, none such thing. _ ” He reassures Arthur, in a tone that Arthur absolutely does not find reassuring.

 

The uncomfortable truth lies between them in the empty space. They do not think at all anymore of Charles, or the storm, or of the distant albino moose. There is only this one thing; this is the first time they have been well and truly alone together since that summer night in the woods. They have gone ranging, done jobs, taken scores, hunted and raced and groomed and slept with tents nearly on top of one another in the camp, they are  _ always together _ , for goodness sake, but they have not been alone and this far away from everyone at once. Not for half as long, and not half as far away. Arthur finds readily that it hurts to dwell on what happened that night, but he sees plainly that at the moment John doesn’t seem to be able to stop. The whiskey in his hand has surely done this situation no favors, and when John tips the bottle back and empties the last of it down his gullet, Arthur gives in to that same animal fear and grows nervous right along with him too.   

 

There is no point in discussing it. What could it bring other than pain? Arthur knows he is a thief, that Dutch and Hosea made him thus, but a little too because he was born that way. Arthur is too good at taking things that do not belong to him, and he berates himself as he stares at the fire for being the kind of man he is. Arthur is weak in this regard. He thinks that what he took from John is wrong. Surely, John will come to regret it in the years ahead. He is young, and oftentimes no smarter than an angry horse, and giving John a gold bar cannot excuse the sin of the theft this time. Arthur wants so badly to be good, to have Dutch tell him that he is honorable, that he is wise. The ugly truth of it all is that Arthur is neither, instead only a strong man with a small brain, and right now he has no mind whatsoever for what to do about John, or the question neither of them seems to understand that hangs in the air between them. Arthur barely understands himself. But John is so angry underneath everything, and there seems no cure for that condition, and as John’s brother, Arthur should know how to guide him. He should see what it is that needs doing and he should do it for John, but he doesn’t see anything clearly except that he has violated that brotherly trust, and this somehow is worse than either of their heads being empty. Arthur suspects, with yet another pang of guilt, that he has  _ never _ known much of anything. 

 

The words come to John first, and only eventually, after a silence heavier than the cave itself.  “I don’t reckon that this…. Any of this…. Well, I don’t suppose it’s doing the either of us a lick of good, Arthur. Don’t make me say it.” 

 

It is a plea that has a ring which is familiar and true, and when Arthur looks across the fire, John is lit from beneath by yellow. It collects under his jaw and dances across his face, and Arthur thinks of that day in the tree when he drew John’s portrait in the dappled sunlight. He thinks again on how looking at a thing and seeing a thing are wholly different. Those two approaches are the difference between what is a forgettable handful of words, and what is a holy verse for the devout. He loves John right now, ashamedly and urgently. But he wants John to continue to grow with honor, and he fears any words he might say will only pull John further off this course.  _ Be loyal to what matters _ , the prayer is always in Arthur’s mind, in Dutch’s voice, in Hosea’s voice, in his own voice as he murmurs it into John’s hip, John’s fingers carding through his hair.  _ Be loyal to what matters.   _

  
  


Arthur is not a dishonest man. He may be useless, or old, or ugly, or a rat bastard or a sneak thief, but he still cannot figure quite how to make a lie come out seeming true. Fortunately, he does not have to be a liar to set John back on the proper path. He hates John’s voice as much as he adores it,  _ Don’t make me say it  _ returning to haunt them both in meaning along with a litany of other sounds out of John that Arthur is sure he will need a priest to one day forgive him for remembering for so long. Arthur grins the kind of grin that’s like a warning and a goodbye at once. It is the kind of grin that isn’t funny or friendly. Not even a little. He will not invite John into his bedroll tonight. 

 

 “Then don’t say anything.”  he says. 

  
  


~

  
  


Charles returns to the camp three days after John and Arthur have returned, wearing the albino pelt of the moose as proudly as a king. Hosea takes some time to admire the spoils sincerely, and when he sits at the hewn camp table and Charles puts it around his old shoulders so that the white fur blends into his hair, Arthur does not think a real king in repose could ever look half as grand as this. But then Dutch is pulling out his ermine and his rabbit and his fox furs, and they both take turns donning the skins until Dutch is the rightful center of attention again and everyone declares his humble kingly attire the finest among them all. 

That evening, John and Abigail begin an argument so sharp and hurtful that it drives Arthur up onto his horse and out of the camp. He finds he cannot tolerate John’s yelling voice anymore these days, and anyway, sometimes he enjoys riding at night just for the sake of it. 

 

It has finally stopped snowing, and the moon against the ice is bright as day, though when he looks up Arthur is still dazzled by a halo of endless stars. For a while he is alone with the huffing of his newest mount, a big-headed warhorse he has named Friar Tuck, and that is exactly what suits Arthur Morgan best. He is always comforted by this; by wide open spaces and a strong animal companion to help forge the way across it. Arthur is not a religious man, except of course for his devoted worship at the altar Van Der Linde, but he feels distinctly  _ watched _ out here in the big empty spaces, in a way that always makes him seem a little less alone. He does not think it is God. It cannot be anything except some truth whispering too far away from his lunk of a head for Arthur to be able to properly understand it, and it is times like these that Arthur wishes most sincerely that he might speak with an actual man of the cloth. Reverend Swanson is no good to speak of, and Arthur’s horse friend Friar Tuck is more pleasant for sure, but even less useless in this regard than the beleaguered Reverend.  Maybe Hell is real, maybe it is not, but Hosea after all cannot have  _ every _ answer.  

  
  


Arthur looks at the stars and rides. Maybe, when a man is worth so little, he is not meant to have grand things. A shepherd should not want to eat his flock. Maybe the way a man like Arthur is meant to touch something bigger than himself has always been only to follow his chosen credence. Maybe loyalty is all there is for him. It is, perhaps, all there has ever been to believe in on this earth.

 

~

  
  


The spring thaw brings flowers, and Arthur grins when he sees the girls going about their business in the morning with rings of lavender in their hair. Dutch is antsy about the law getting wind of their position after such a languorous season spent in a single place, and so again the camp lumbers on, searching for new footing to live out their summer months.  

 

When traveling through a boggy area, afraid to snap the axles of their wagons in the gloppy mud, the gang builds a temporary camp on the only patch of dry land for five miles in every direction, and then send scouts to course the safest path away. It is a dead mound, a burnt spot scorched into the hillside from a forest fire that died not too long ago. Everything is parched, and the water around them is fetid and rotten with bugs. They begin boiling everything, but one night the cook fire gets out of hand and spreads to the tents, and when Arthur returns from hunting with Bill and Javier for meat, he sees that his wagon has been destroyed, along with everything in it. He cares for nothing, except his journal. 

 

Hosea tries to comfort him by pressing an old family photo into his palm, and later a picture of Arthur’s old camp dog, Copper, but it is no use. The only things Arthur has saved in his satchel by pure seeming chance is a handful of Mary Linton’s letters, and a photo of his deceitful devil of a father. He kicks the charcoal remains of his trunk and pronounces sadly, “ _ She’s good and dead, ain’t she _ ?” but it is his journal that he will be miserable about for months and months to come. 

 

Every thought. Every drawing. Of everyone, of everything, and, of course, of John. Arthur is so miserable with words. The portrait of John in the tree is gone, and so is the sketch of Abigail sleeping, and the beautiful parasol mushroom at dawn, and the wild horses in the field, and of old Hosea sitting with the kingly pelt over his shoulders. This is a sharp hurt Arthur cannot understand.  It is too bitter in his mouth, and he knows nobody will stop him when he loads up his Varmint Rifle and a fat bag of supplies onto Friar Tuck and announces he is going into town. Perhaps they think the trip is meant for the purchase of another journal at the general store, but in truth, it is only to sit in the saloon and to drink. 

 

~

 

It is a tiny town, just the way Arthur likes it. The town is so pathetic he cannot find it’s name written anywhere. It has a saloon and an inn though, so he supposes it will do just fine, and when he sits down to his third drink, he discovers from the bartender that the little town’s name is Blackwater. The name feels appropriate. Arthur thinks the town is too small even to mention, and so he promptly loses the name along with a number of his other woes at the bottom of his whiskey glass.  

 

~

 

His rented room is pitch black and Arthur is yanked up out of a dead sleep by a violent pounding on his door. He thinks to ignore it at first, but then it becomes more insistent, and Arthur thinks his noisy visitor’s fist must be made out of petrified wood. He is afraid at that moment he knows exactly who it is, and his head is splitting as he rolls out of bed then stumbles, sleep stupid, across the floor to pull open the door.

 

Arthur thinks perhaps Hell is real after all when he discovers his visitor is none other than John Marston, exactly who he thought. He grunts and presses a hand across his sore forehead, then turns around and ushers John in after him with a wave of his fingers. He lights the oil lamp and once it is lit Arthur can see better that John looks haggard, more than he usually does, which is still to say quite a lot. 

 

John flounders on the edge of language, literally leaning forward on the tips of his boots. He seems a little drunk. Arthur does not know what time it is. “ _ Stop _ .” He commands gruffly, then he sits down on the edge of the bed, and John shifts his weight forward again by the door and huffs in irritation.

 

“Huh? I didn’t even _ do nothin’  _ yet!”  

 

“You did.” Arthur assures him.  “Now, _ what _ ?”

 

Arthur wonders why John cannot decide, once and for all, between clamming up as tight as a mollusk or being a goddamn blabbermouth. He can do both equally well, it is a known fact, and it is all the more frustrating when Arthur can see he is doing one, but longs instead to do the other.  Arthur’s hangover is ferocious, and he does not think he has the patience for this at the particular moment. But John has maybe settled on staying clammed up, he thinks, and so Arthur lets the quiet ride, until for John it grows so unbearable that instead he begins shedding layers of his clothes. The realization of what he is doing here hits Arthur hard.  

 

“ _ No _ . Stop--” Arthur says again, rising up straighter in his seat, louder, with much more purpose than the last time. John throws his duster coat on the floor and snaps out of his suspenders. He pauses only to give Arthur a snotty, arrogant look before beginning to unbutton his shirt. “ _ Yes _ .” He says back with just as much venom. He rips the last of the buttons open and begins to pull the tails of his shirt out of his pants.

 

“No--  _ goddamn you, Marston _ ,” Arthur rises up and takes the two steps needed to breach their distance, before he is shoving John hard in the chest, “I said  _ stop _ !” 

 

John hits the door hard, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “Just let me give you  _ something _ !” He shouts. “Jesus, Arthur, let me pay you back!” 

 

“You don’t owe me, not back then, and not now.” Arthur shakes his head as he backs up again, attempting to make space where he feels there is suddenly none at all. John makes this worse by following him. 

 

“Then, just, try to consider it a gift!” 

 

It is a stupid suggestion. Arthur waves him off and shuffles over to the small desk in the corner, where a mostly empty bottle of moonshine sits, exactly where Arthur left it after sucking down the majority. He slops an inch into his glass and shoots it back at once, and for a minute he thinks he might throw up, but he does not. 

 

John huffs behind him, without amusement. He’s always been an arrogant little son of a bitch. “Alright! Not a gift then! Not for  _ you _ , you sour old bastard. Think of it as a gift for  _ me _ .” 

 

“Well, well! The prize pony wants his apple!” Arthur laughs, though he cannot look at John. He is too afraid that he will break, though how it will happen he doesn’t rightly know. He can’t disappoint John again, or Dutch, or Hosea, or himself. And, he supposes, there is Abigail to consider. And honor. And nature. Oh, Hellfire. 

 

 “You’re stubborn as an old  _ stump,  _ I _ swear! _ ” John follows up his complaint with a handful of other choice words, and Arthur is fiercely fond of him even as he stares into the bottom of his empty glass. John’s blistering terminology increases as he goes along, but Arthur can hear the sounds of his fingers starting to tear at his clothes again. This is expressly against Arthur’s wishes, he has made it as clear as he is able, but the soft flop of cloth hitting the floor follows up his words when John’s anger has at last spent itself. Then his hand is on Arthur’s arm. A little question is still in his touch, and that simple innocence is maddening. 

 

“I betrayed you.” Arthur whispers without tone into his whiskey glass, and the fingers on his arm tighten.

 

“ _ No _ ,” John murmurs, closer than Arthur is prepared for. “...I figured that was me.” 

 

John’s hand leaves his arm, and Arthur feels it like a cold wind. But John has only gone to blow out the lamp, and when Arthur finally turns around in the dark, he bumps into warm skin. John’s hands lift Arthur’s to his chest. Without his sight, Arthur allows himself to let his touch rest there, feeling the  _ thumpa-thump  _ of John’s beating heart beneath the palms of his hands.

 

“ _ Say I can _ , Arthur.” John begs on a low note, and Arthur cannot see his face, but his voice alone is enough to prove he is true. He puts a hand to John’s cheek, the first time he has ever allowed himself such a boon, and sighs as he rubs a thumb back and forth across the stubble he finds there. John is forever chomping at the bit to spring into action. He is too hungry, too young and strong, and Arthur thinks right then that maybe John’s tended days in his flock are numbered. He rumbles a noise that doesn’t sound like any word in particular, and then he tries again, to similar effect. It is enough for John.  Shuffling forward in only his boots, John presses his naked body into Arthur and sends them both toppling over the bed. 

 

Arthur knows John is a sort of human devil by now, an insatiable man with the reputation of a wolf, but he doesn’t expect the speed with which John strips him of his clothes. His hands are weasley, twisting and yanking on Arthur until at last his rancher’s pants and then his long johns beneath have been torn away. The sensation of John lying on top of him naked is remarkable, despite the fact that in the dark it is not so different from the feeling of a woman. The limbs are bonier, he supposes, and there is a hardness thudding against Arthur’s thigh, and of course there is the simple knowledge that it is John. That alone would be enough. It is all Arthur can think about, and he is immediately, ashamedly hard.

 

“Easy!” Now it is John’s turn to relax Arthur in his moment of panic, and he settles a reassuring hand on Arthur’s chest, even as his other hand drifts down to take his manhood in a firm grip. “ _ Easy _ ,” John coos as Arthur twists and grunts beneath him.  _ “Easy, easy, steady now. _ ”  

“ _ I ain’t your livestock, boy. _ ” Arthur grits through clenched teeth, if only to keep himself from making a sound he is sure a demon will ask him to explain at the Pearly Gates one day. But John’s hand is moving fast against him, so impossibly good feeling, so electric, that Arthur is not entirely positive that he has not died.  _ Ain’t your livestock _ , what a joke. 

 

“You sure about that?” John replies with a brogueish amusement, and then he is spreading something slick across Arthur’s sensitive parts with his hand. When John straddles him, in a moment which either takes no time at all, or takes every second which has ever existed in all of the universe before now, he seizes his opportunity and slowly sinks down on Arthur’s length.  When John has fully seated himself, Arthur lurches halfway up and grips John’s buttox in place to halt his movements, trembling like a horse in shock after taking a tumble down a hill. He does not have the wherewithal to wonder if John is laughing at him. He only thinks of all the times he has wanted this before, wanted it so desperately he thought he might burst apart. It is an unseemly desire, he knows it, and he has done his best to behave himself and conduct his business in a manner that Hosea would be proud. But there are only a few brothels that tend to this kind of need, and even fewer with passably interesting boys. It is a filthy secret he has always hidden away from Dutch and Hosea, meaning it is a secret he has barely ever acknowledged. He is too close to the camp too often, and he likes it that way. Arthur does not think he is capable anymore of physically loving someone who has no interest in loving him. He has always been a bad liar, and he tells the truth now with his whole body when he groans and rolls up into John, until John barks at him to speed up and claws too hard into his chest.  

 

Apparently, John fucks like there is a time limit. He is always racing, in a violent hurdle towards the end. Maybe this is only because he is nervous, or maybe this is the only way John has ever learned, considering the teachers he has had. Once they are acclimated well enough, he rides Arthur hard, hard enough to make his head roll back and make his hair wild as he groans. John is a darker shadow on a field of black, and Arthur thinks this moment could last forever. There are no windows, he does not know the time. He barely knows the place, and he does not know at all the purpose of all of this. John helps their sloppy mess along with his fingers when he wracks them through Arthur’s hair, across his chest, gouging his nails deep into the arms that steady him at the waist. He is squeezing Arthur like he has something to prove, and Arthur wants to understand. So badly, he wishes he could know the reason for any of this. 

 

John hooks Arthur’s fingers, and leads them to his hardness. Arthur is nothing if not devoted, so he gives no thought at all and only touches, taking John in his hand and caressing him with a continued tenderness. The touch produces in John a sputter of frustration and longing in the darkness, and he moans “Damn it, Arthur, _ harder _ !” and then Arthur supposes nothing after this is technically his fault, since John has asked him so very directly.     

 

Everything has a price. Arthur cannot find the space to consider this fact in his mind when he finally takes what he wants and rolls John over in the bed. He is afraid of the lust he hears in John’s voice, as much as it stokes some secret part of him.  _ Perhaps you have not betrayed anyone _ , John’s moans seem to reassure.  _ Suppose this one particular thing could be yours, Arthur Morgan. Just this one thing _ . But what could possibly be the price of this? Arthur is a good thief, but he is not so good as to suppose he could steal something so valuable with no universal consequence. 

 

He is angry that this must all end so soon. If Arthur could choose to live forever in a moment it could very well be this one. John is wild beneath him, like a kicking horse, like a bramble of thorns, and Arthur revels in holding him together between his hands as they make each other come undone. When he thrusts once, hard and fast, John dissolves into a snarl of obscenities and praises, and Arthur has to wrangle his arms back down to shove him harder into the soft pillow top. With his arms pinned, all that is left to John is his mouth, and he groans Arthur’s name as they move together.  _ “Arthur, Arthur…. _ Come _ on _ , god damn you,  _ Arthur…. You sonovabitch _ , _ Arthur, harder _ !” John has never been a poet, but it feels like poetry when Arthur puts him through his paces, and one last thrust is all that is required to send John over the edge in a jumble of beautiful moans. It is hot and sticky between them in a sudden gush, and John wrenches his arms free and wraps them about Arthur’s neck. For long minutes he refuses to release him, holding Arthur in place and forcing them to live in that exact moment together, frozen in time. 

 

Eventually Arthur shoves him off and sits back, his guilt getting the better of him, but John is impossibly spry, and even after the pummeling he has just now took, he shoves Arthur backwards and climbs on top of him again. “ _ It ain’t over till it’s over, cowboy _ ” He grits, and slams himself back down on Arthur’s erection.  Arthur lets his arms fall to his sides, more shocked than anything, because he simply cannot  _ believe it _ . “ _ Monster child, _ ” He grunts, as John rebutts with a voice like sandpaper “ _ Rotten old stump, _ ” and he is riding Arthur hard again, almost seeming harder than the last time. John always wrangles Arthur in directions that are dangerous, but this is the best, Arthur thinks,  _ by far _ . He comes in no time at all, and then John is laughing that triumphant, raspy laugh of his, and bragging “Weren’t so bad as all that, were it, Morgan? You got some  _ real _ sins to go confess now!”  and he is pulling John down next to him and pressing his forehead into the top notch of his angular spine, and soon enough, he is asleep. They sleep together, just like that, and there is nothing more to understand about it. 

 

~

 

When Arthur awakes, at first he does not know where he is. It is too dark, but he can see the outlines of furniture, and that he is in a bed. A regular bed, not his usual cotton rollup still waiting for him back at the camp. When he remembers like a lightning strike exactly what has transpired, he sits up with a jerk, and he is plunged into immediate despair at his obvious aloneness. 

 

The door groans open with a beam of light as if summoned by sheer thought alone, and John walks in. He is fully dressed and looking quite pleased with himself, and he meanders over to one side of the room and draws back the curtains from the window.  _ So there were curtains, _ Arthur grumbles internally. He just must have been too drunk to see them.   

 

The room fills with sunlight, and Arthur is distantly conscious of the fact that he is still naked. But he supposes that it doesn’t matter anymore. “God almighty, Arthur, you slept like  _ the dead!” _ John chastises, and somewhere inside, Arthur feels a power dynamic shifting. He scowls, and dumps his legs on the ground. When he begins pulling his long johns back on, he only manages to get them up to his waist before a package is thrust into his line of sight. He looks up, and John is framed by the window and he has the daylight shining all around him. Furthermore, he is smiling. It is not a mocking smile like his normal kind, or a scheming smile, or even a stupid one, but it is the sort of look that’s left behind when everything else falls away. It is warm, Arthur dully thinks. Pure sunshine. “Got you a gift.” John says. 

 

Arthur snatches the brown paper out of John’s hand and begins to unwrap it. A moment’s effort produces a fine brown leather journal, with a long tassel that wraps around the width of the book. At first, Arthur has no words, and instead he leans over on his knees and holds the journal in one hand, giving it a shake or two as he takes it all in. 

 

“John Marston, you are….” Arthur starts out slowly, still keeping his eyes on the new book. “... _very good_ at _some_ _things_.”

 

John scoffs. “Ain’t I always been?” 

 

“Now, that’s debatable.” 

 

“I have heard that the town here has a mighty fine view of the river. Now, they aint built a dock or nothin’ yet, but I went down and had a stomp on the shore ground and it’s sturdy enough. No chance of old Marston takin’ a tumble. So what say you to the two of us going on over and doin’ a little fishing today? Sun’s out, it’s a fine day for it as any.”

 

Arthur glances from John’s sunlit face to the bright blue sky he can see through the glass panes of his window. He does not believe, and this is true, that a finer day has ever existed. 

  
  
  
  
  


 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops this two parter became a three parter because I keep putting off making Arthur's life a living hell and then eventually killing Arthur off because I LOVE HIM TOO MUCH!! Also I literally altered the van der linde timeline in order to stretch the summer phase of this fake romance out, I know it's wrong, please forgive me, but I am but a simple gay with the simple desire to see another gay happy, if only for a minute. :( Hope you enjoyed this sordid yeehaw smut, tune in next time for exclusively heartbreak :(((((( why am I doing this to myself!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR I GUESS!


	3. Chapter 3

 

The water is a patchwork quilt of shimmering lights. John and Arthur spend the afternoon fishing by the river nearby to Blackwater, and John is right, the soil is sturdy all the way up to the shoreline. Arthur thinks the water may be quite deep. Maybe it is deep enough for a steam boat to pass through one day, though certainly smaller sailing vessels could traverse the surface with little fear of dragging their hulls over rocks. A fisherman’s boat would be no thing at all, and as Arthur listens to their reels slowly clicking, he thinks he may one day like to take John out for a row.  He knows the waxy look on John’s face when he is out over open water, and if anything the excursion would be amusing.

 

It is a very fine day indeed, and for a few blessed hours it is easy for Arthur to forget his troubles. He knows he is looking at John with too much affection, he can feel it in his face like a warning, but he is nonetheless still a little charmed by the reaction it produces. At first John is unsure, darting disbelieving glances at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, as if he cannot believe his previous night’s stunt has produced such favorable results. But with time he seems to grow more confident, and soon he is looking back at Arthur and grinning wide enough to crack his face. He seems giddy, and for John, who does not smile often for any reason other than at a bawdy song or being proven right in an argument, the look is very handsome indeed. It seems to slow him down, as if he wants this happiness to drag unbearably on, but Arthur has already slipped into the fantasy that this is an endless summer they’re standing in; that time itself has been made to hold still in order to grant them the boon of a completely perfect afternoon. When John laughs with a little incredulous awe, Arthur’s heart is warmed by hope. He thinks it is the most wonderful sound he has ever heard, and he thinks that the wellspring of his loyalty towards John will never, ever run dry.

 

Arthur catches several Bullhead Catfish, but John catches an absolutely enormous Northern Pike, and for a while he is all swagger and bravado. It is John’s right to claim the honor of best catch, but he is annoying and ridiculous, and Arthur thinks he could push John with one hand into the river and wipe that smug look off his face quicker than lightning. Of course he does nothing of the sort, but instead he only nods, and hum haws noises of agreement, and watches John’s performance with love in his eyes. For a while they entirely forget they are fishing at all, and Arthur leans a little on his fishing rod and thinks he will always remember this day; the heat of the sun on his scalp, and the gurgle of water, and the chirping song of summer-loving crickets. And of course, he will remember John.

 

~

 

John rides a dusty mustang he must have stolen the night before alongside Arthur’s big horse, Friar Tuck, and they talk together the whole way back to camp. They talk about everything, about the time old Copper ate Hosea’s prize salmon right out from underneath him, and the time Hosea swindled a jeweler into paying Dutch for the honor of casting him custom gold rings. They laugh about the time Uncle slipped on horse manure and took a hard fall into the watering trough, and they talk about all the jokes John played on Pearson when he was young, hiding his whiskey bottles and his naval medals, and rearranging all his supplies.  It is an easy ride that seems to take no time at all, and it is only when Arthur feels Friar Tuck’s hooves sinking into deeper mud that he realizes they have already gone most of the way.

 

The camp is just about packed up and ready to move on from their burn scald on the side of the hill, and Arthur nods in approval as he and John circle around to hitch their horses up. It is only when he spots Abigail, silent and grave looking and uncharacteristically shy, hiding on the other side of Pearson’s wagon, that he first suspects something has gone perilously wrong.

 

~

 

The fight Abigail and John have that night is not the loudest that Arthur has ever heard, but it is the worst, by far. John’s voice is savage and desperately plaintive in turns, and Abigail starts to sob halfway through, only to cut over herself to scream her anger out at John’s ungentlemanly behavior. When Arthur realizes what has happened, he grows cold all over, and his body moves without thought over to Miss Grimshaw’s wagon to see about helping her with her packing. She waves his offer off with a kindly pat on his arm, the task is mostly done already anyway, but she pauses and laughs a little when Abigail’s hysterical yelling hits a fever pitch. “It’ll be a winter baby!” Grimshaw says with a glowing hint of matriarchal wisdom, before she looks twice at Arthur then leans in a little. “Why, Mr. Morgan, you’ve gone quite pale! Are you well?” Arthur grunts something unintelligible about needing a little sleep, and he leaves her to her own devices.

 

Around behind Dutch’s wagon, Arthur discovers that Hosea has gone and procured new sleeping arrangements for him while he was away. It is not quality that Arthur expects, and the wagon is barely standing, the splintery wood of the thing threatens even the toughest of calluses, but it is the thoughtfulness of the deed that penetrates Arthur’s icy daze. He knows that it is from Hosea, and he knows it is meant to be a gift, because Arthur’s rustler hat is sitting up in the seat, next to a stack of old books. Arthur stands there in the dirt awhile, looking at it but not really seeing it, before his body chooses an arbitrary action and he jerkily climbs up the side of the wagon wheel and takes a seat.

 

The night is not cold, but Arthur finds once he has sat down that he has begun to shiver all over. He tries to put aside the petrified sound of John yelling “ _You wanna shoot me in the head, Abigail? Well go on then, might as well get on with it!_ ” and instead he picks up the top book from Hosea’s stack. It is an older copy of _Le Morte ’dArthur_ , both english and french versions side aside on every page just like how Arthur remembers. Arthur recalls Dutch reading it aloud in a low and noble voice so very long ago, when it was still just the three of them together, the curious couple and their idiot son. The book is a relic from too many lifetimes past. Now, Arthur takes the familiar object and turns it over in his hands, then he cracks it open and looks down towards the end of the facing yellow page:

 

 _‘Then Sir Bedivere cried:  ‘Ah my lord Arthur,_ __  
_what shall become of me, now ye go from me and leave_  
_me here alone among mine enemies?’_

 

 _‘Comfort thyself,’ said the king, ‘and do as well as_  
_thou mayst, for in me is no trust for to trust in;  for I will into_  
_the vale of Avalon to heal me of my grievous wound: and  
_ _if thou hear never more of me, pray for my soul.’’_

 

~

 

Micah Bell accuses Arthur of having gone full mute four times the morning they prepare to depart, and he is going in for his fifth dig when Arthur spins on a muddy boot and decks him hard in the face. Micah reels, blood spurting from his nose in a violent geyser, before he is on Arthur again and pounding down on his skull on all sides like a meteor shower. It takes Charles and John both to tear them apart, and Arthur socks John in the jaw too when John tries too hard to calm him. It takes no time before Dutch is thundering across the dead grass and commanding the entire squabble to “ _cease this malignant stupidity!_ ” in a booming voice that books for no man’s argument. Arthur tries not to see Dutch’s obvious disdain, or to see the corner of John in the periphery of his vision that’s staring after him and wiping a slow hand across his sore jaw, and instead he retrieves his hat from the dirt and puts it on. He goes then in a dangerous mood to climb silently up into his new wagon next to Hosea, in preparation to begin their journey.

 

The road is rough, and Arthur loses a wheel in the sticky mud twice. Javier and Lenny help lift the wagon as Arthur rams the wheel back into place, and they are all filthy and moody when Arthur climbs back into the driver’s seat.

 

Hosea is far too frail for this kind of physical work now, and so he is clean and calm when Arthur again snaps the reigns and gruffly commands his horses on. He is looking at Arthur in a way Arthur knows is meant to be unobtrusive, Hosea is not a rude man, and he has never approached a problem like a trampling buffalo like certain _other_ people. But there is a question in his gaze, and Arthur can tell he has been thinking hard. When Hosea speaks, however, it is not to question Micah’s bloody nose, or Arthur’s surly silence, or even the way John stared after Arthur earlier like he had never been struck before in his entire life.

 

“You know, I have _always_ believed that Merlin and Arthur were the best of friends, but it was really _Lancelot_ who was the most loyal to his king in the end. _Oh_! But I probably sound like an old fool.”

 

Arthur grunts, glances over, sees the old book of knights in Hosea’s grasp. He’s turning it over in his hands like Arthur does sometimes. Arthur wonders if he has learned this behavior from his father, before he cautiously treads ahead. “Alright, you old wizard, what d’you want?”   

 

“Nothing whatsoever! No offense intended, dear Arthur! I only thought a present might _lift_ your _spirits_ a little.”

 

“They’re plenty lifted.” Arthur scowls, dark as a thunderstorm.

 

Hosea gives a rueful grin and a little chuckle, and he is smoothing his palm across the face of the book again before he settles it heavily in his lap. He looks off into the distance, seeming for a long moment as if he is considering something of dreadful import, before he speaks again.

 

“...There’s some _comfort_ in enjoying old, familiar things though, isn’t there?” His tone is not serious like Arthur expects, but only a little wistful.

 

Arthur glances sideways again and holds his tongue, but he looks at Hosea, then he looks at the book, and he looks at the road, and he thinks on what has been said. It is only when Karen begins to sing further up the line and Arthur is distracted from his ponderings that he realizes his foul mood has broken.

 

Hosea smiles at the music. He leans back in his seat and says, “yes, that’s very nice!” and then Arthur knows; he has been tricked. But Arthur isn’t angry. In fact, he feels quite the opposite. Even though he has seen Hosea work his craft on other people hundreds of times before, it still retains the power to surprise him. This time, Arthur thinks that the spell just cast upon him by his clever old huckster father is the _real_ gift, and it is not the wagon, or even the stack of old books. His gift is only _knowing_ Arthur. Hosea knows his son very well indeed. Love, it turns out, is still the kindest sort of white magic that exists.

 

~

  


 Dutch has decided that they should go Northeast, and for this Arthur is grateful. He has always felt more at ease the farther away from encroaching civilization the gang can get, and Arthur thinks the world makes more sense when they are out in the open together like this, wild and free, where the land evens out and there is no law to dictate their actions. He likes it when a man can ride so close to the sunset as it dips into the earth that it feels like there is a place where heaven and earth must surely touch, but it is another thing entirely to travel Colorado-bound with the sun setting on his right, and watching as the mountains rise up in a mighty blue bowl about their small caravan.

 

This land is savage and ancient, and the craigy mountains against the summer sky are beautiful enough to make Arthur’s heart ache. It hurts to the point where he wonders at that ache, at what it’s purpose might be. Whenever he looks at the majestic skyline, he feels hungry for something he has lost. He cannot tell if it is for John, or for Mary, or for an impossible future he has imagined, or if it is the reverse and in truth he only hungers for a home from a very long time ago that he can no longer recall. Arthur is ravenous in this place, but thinks on it again with a somewhat forced level of rationality, and maintains in the end that it is only the mountains themselves that torture him. Their ancient beauty is beyond knowing. Perhaps it is their old language that speaks to Arthur now; not with words, but with the desperate, primordial brushstroke of their craigy clifftops, with the sharp jut of clusters of narrow black pine trees, and with the rainbow of colorful shrubs which speckle the landscape as they descend through the foothills, through canyons and mesas, and over plateaus that stretch on and on into seeming endlessness.

 

As their caravan rumbles past the cackling hysterics of a pack of coyotes as they set upon the carcass of a Bison, Arthur thinks with the sinister creep of poison in his veins that in future to return to civilization would be a very great mistake. _People_ are the problem, he worries. _Too many goddamn people._ Arthur ruminates on this idea as they ride. He broods over it and chews it up in his mind, until he concludes with the notion that if they settled down _right here,_ exactly here and not a mile further, it could very much be enough for the lot of them.  He thinks that they could all live very happily here, completely away from the rest of the civilized world. He thinks that even an infant might not want for anything, and that the open wilderness has always been its own kind of immaculate paradise, the kind that could put an end to their wanderings and leave them finally satisfied, not just Dutch’s fantasy property in Wyoming. The problem is only that the others have never seen the truth in this, and Arthur wonders why they _still_ cannot seem to see it now. _Why?_ He wonders again and again, why, _why can they not see_ that the paradise they seek is only ever where you choose to make it?  

 

If only Dutch would listen! But Arthur knows; they will not stay.

 

~

 

They settle by a lake that shimmers in the sunlight bright enough to blind a man, and Arthur throws himself into physical labor so he will not have to think on any one particular thing. Uncle and the Reverend have never been of much use to anyone and Arthur lets them know this in so many angry words, but there are plenty of other young, strong hands to get the job sufficiently done, and under Miss Grimshaw’s practiced guidance their little caravan once again transforms into a home.

 

Though it is painful, much more painful than the sight of the craggy mountainscape, Arthur knows distantly that he must eventually speak with John. He is so insufficient with his words, and he does not want to make flesh a truth which he knows already lies understood, as much as it is still unspoken. But also Arthur does not think he can stomach anymore the miserable look on John’s face some of these recent nights, when John will give him the hungry kind of stare that begs for his brother to fix the problem, to make it all somehow untrue, and to guide him down the proper path. Arthur has always taught John to be an honorable man, though admittedly, John has taken these moral lessons so far only partially to heart. But between the two of them, there is only this;  their way of life has left them with nothing else but loyalty to believe in. To live out this credence to its proper definition like Arthur has always avowed, there is only one thing left to do. It is only that Arthur cannot stand to do it.

 

~

 

There are thick chunks of white fish in Pearson’s stew in the evening, and Arthur sits nursing a bowl by himself at the camp table. All are well enough except for Javier, who has pulled his back something wretched during their journey and is laid out by the fire, and of course for Abigail and John, whose arguing voices are now, as always, a current of discontent that all together must share in. He is listening now to John’s muffled argument on the opposite side of the cook wagon, insisting “t _here are things I ain’t ready to give up yet! Things you wouldn’t understand!_ ” and Abigail’s hot-headed rebuttal, “ _Like what? Staying out all night and getting boiled? Leave Lenny to drink with Arthur and learn to be a man already!_ ” and then there is the hot, bright smack of somebody getting slapped, though Arthur cannot tell which of them is more likely to have gone and done the slapping first. He supposes, they are both equally liable.  

 

Arthur does not realize that he might also count himself as one of the most beleaguered in the camp before Charles drops down into the seat opposite of him. His dark face is quantifiably sterner than usual. For an exhausted moment, Arthur wishes that they might not be all so on top of each other. He is sick to death of being observed. He does not want to be seen right now, but he knows his wishes and the reality of things have never really and truly met up.

 

“You’re pale.” Charles offers without introduction. “Are you sick?” He has his own bowl of stew, and a cup of coffee additionally, and he immediately digs into both without a taste for the food, and only with the goal of nourishment in mind. Arthur shakes his head like an old horse. “No! Hale and hearty as ever.”

 

“You know people look up to you.” The fact is plain and not accusatory, and Charles is half busy anyway with eating, but it is enough to slow Arthur’s hand and make him look up. Charles gives him only the briefest of glances before continuing, “You can’t keep this up, it’s no good for anyone. You’re setting a bad example.”

 

“I ain’t sick.” Arthur says again, and he knows it is completely insufficient before he’s even finished saying it. Charles gives him a wry glance, then slurps from the lip of his bowl. When he sets it down on the table again, the bowl is half empty and he passes the back of his arm across his mouth to wipe away the grease. “ _Heartsick_ ,” he rebuts, and Arthur sits up straighter, growing cold and still. “It’s all the same, Arthur.”   

 

“I don’t--”

 

“It’s not uncommon, among the native people. It’s more normal than I think even you would believe. There’s nothing wrong with how you feel.”

 

In less than a breath, Charles has gone too far. Arthur feels a hot, hungry shiftlessness flair up in the pit of his stomach, and he levels Charles with the slow, dangerous look of a bear about to strike. He forgets his soup entirely as his fingers dig into the surface of the table. “Guard your next words _very carefully,_ Charles Smith.” He grits, keeping his voice low. He wants _no one_ to hear this conversation, just as much as he wishes Charles had not spoken a word about it at all. Charles only regards his defensiveness with another snort into his soup bowl, and then he tilts it back and polishes the rest clean off. He lets the bowl clatter to the table surface again with a belch, and gives Arthur one last contemplative look.

 

“About John. It’s not unnatural.”

 

Something breaks in Arthur’s anger and he laughs once, a single humorless sound that is half panic, half disbelief, and no amusement whatsoever. He feels a cruel twist at the words.  He has longed so adamantly to hear them, fearing perpetually that they are not true, though he never thought this moment would come at the cost of anyone else in camp knowing his most preciously guarded secret. He is a godawful liar and so he does nothing to try to deny it, but he drops his spoon and runs a tired knuckle across his brow to keep himself from having to speak for as long as is possible.

 

“... _Enough_ , please.” He finally begs Charles, and his voice is exhausted even to his own ears. Arthur is relieved when Charles shuts his mouth and nods once, then climbs out of his chair and takes his coffee and walks away... but Arthur follows his shape with his eyes anyway, not quite mistrusting but nervous all the same, until Charles has disappeared from view and again Arthur’s only company is the sound of Abigail’s endless litany of miseries and complaints. He knows Charles is a man of honor, and that he will not speak of this to anyone, but it is more than enough already that he knows anything at all.

 

~    

 

Arthur has taken up the night guard when John finally comes to him. John always finds Arthur in the dark, and Arthur hopes a little that he always will. He materializes on the other side of the outposter’s fire in a slick of flickering orange light as Arthur makes a quick stop to shrug out of his leather buckskin vest. Even in the cool nighttime, it is still too warm for layers. Or maybe it is only Arthur’s pacing, a little brisker than is necessary, that is what has really frothed up such a sweat.   

 

“ _Arthur_ ,” John gives him a gruff nod, brother greeting brother, and Arthur’s body slows down until he nearly stops moving, before he snaps up again with a grunt. He is heartsick, but he gives a jerk of the head anyway, and says with gentle understanding, “Come on, then.”

 

He has been waiting for this moment, then supposes further that he cannot have been the only one.

 

The rest of the camp sleeps as John and Arthur circle the perimeter once, and then again in a second ring a few yards wider out. They walk along the lake, and for a while Arthur stops looking so intently into the dark around them. There are no people anywhere nearby insofar as he can tell, and the only threat he can deduce at the moment is the threat of hungry badgers intent on purloining a hen or two from their chicken coop. Instead, he listens to the crunch of their feet, but he still cannot force another word out of his mouth. He is so wretched when it comes to speaking his private feelings, and John has the kind of language that would make a King James Bible burst into flames on one of his good days, so he wonders where that leaves them.

 

In the end, it is John who gets to his words first. He is the one that usually does. “I never thought Arthur Morgan _silent_ would make me reconsider my problems with authority.  Ain't it supposed to be that I get mad _after_ you yell?”

 

Arthur offers a rueful chuckle, but nothing more than that. John sighs and Arthur can hear his jittery nerves in the unmetered shuffle of his boots, and then his arm is on Arthur’s shoulder to stop them. They are far from the camp, but-- Arthur looks over his shoulder once-- not far enough. “ _Arthur_ ,” John insists with that voice like gravel, and Arthur knows he can no longer hide from this moment. He gives a long, suffering sigh, and John looks at him again like he has been struck.

 

Moonlight off the lake catches John’s grizzled chin in a silver arc, and Arthur thinks he is beautiful, and that all of this together is too cruel to even think on, while still knowing that he must. He hitches his repeater up higher on his shoulder, then lets himself take John’s head between his hands. It is not sensual but only affectionate, rough palms smoothing the greasy waterfall of John’s hair down over his ears, and he wills his hands to communicate only strength, instead of the nervy coldness which is flopping around inside him like a gasping fish. “You know, John…” He begins slowly, in a metered voice. “...that I’ll always... _be here_. To take care of you.”

 

John does not like this one bit and jerks forward to initiate a kiss, but Arthur catches him up and rebuts it before John can make contact, pushing him back into place. John looks wild in the dark, his pupils shot wide and black as twin caves, and if he wasn’t so dirty all the time Arthur could swear he might have gone white as a sheet. Perhaps it is only the moonlight shining pale on is face that is what makes Arthur think this, but it is a very particular sort of pain all by itself, knowing the effect his actions have. “ _No more_ , boy,” Arthur shakes his head, and his voice is tired. “Not again.”   

 

“No.” John retorts, and angrily shoves Arthur’s hands away from his face. Arthur sighs as it happens, feeling himself growing more ancient by the second. One day, he is sure, John Marston will be the death of him. “ _Yes_.” He replies simply, and there is nothing in the tone that gives John an inch to budge it.

 

It is no surprise that John kicks up a nasty fuss in this moment. He has always been short-tempered, and Arthur knows his pride is hurt on top of all the rest of it. He looks furious and desperate intermittently, and he paces in an agitated circle, barking out a jumbled snarl of frustrated insults and other assorted curse words half at Arthur and half at the universe, then he swiftly kicks a smooth shore rock out over the shimmering surface of the water. He listens to the heavy _‘glunk’_ it makes as it sinks into the lake, and then he shoves Arthur roughly in the chest, and then he turns away and is threading his fingers through his long black hair until he pulls it too tight at the roots across his scalp. The whole display puts Arthur very much in mind of John as a child, stubborn to a fault and too full of pride to admit the truth when he has done something wrong. Arthur cannot think precisely of what either of them have done to merit such a punishment except that John has put a baby in Abigail with his violent affections before he and Arthur even had their night together in the hotel in Blackwater, but the future John and Arthur could have shared as lovers is still so new that already the vision of it is fading into fantasy, almost as if it had never really happened. Perhaps, that is for the best. Arthur pauses to think with self-hatred on the price of things, and then thinks even further that maybe there _had_ been a cost to taking what he wanted, against nature and against honor, and that maybe, _just maybe,_ the price was this.

 

“ _You know our way_ .” Arthur breathes, nervous that John’s ruckus will have roused some of the sleepers nearby. But he tries to make his brotherly point all the same.  “You’re gonna do _right_ by that woman, John Marston, because that’s the kind of man you are.”

 

John spins back around to Arthur, his eyes ablaze with anger. “Damn it, Arthur, that’s the kind of man _you_ are!”

 

 _“Don’t do that,_ ” Arthur growls at John’s implication, and the entire conversation goes sideways in an instant. “ _Don’t you dare._ ” He does not want to call into question John’s honor, he wants to believe John is true, and that he has always been true, even when Arthur knows he has not _always_ been, _not quite_ , but John is laughing in the dark and there is still nothing for Arthur to believe in except for loyalty, to staying true to what matters, and to him John is more precious than all the towns spread out across the whole breadth of the country, and all the folk that live within them. It is only that John is acting the devil right now, and Arthur is sure that he cannot stand it. “You know how we live, Marston, you _know_ our words.”

 

This statement, for John, is immediately and completely the largest pile of _cockamamey horse shit_ he has apparently ever heard, because he stops his humorless laughter and turns around to fix Arthur with a blistering look that Arthur is not quite sure will not end with one of them getting shot.

 

“ _Fuck your loyalty_ ,” John snarls, and then he is turning on a heel and barreling away again through the trees and into darkness.

 

  
Arthur remains where he stands by the lake, tired and heartsick. How has everything come to this? He wonders at why he must love John as he does, so fervently and with only consequence to look forward to. It is not the first time he has thought this, and it will certainly not be the last. But he also thinks with an inconsolable and unexplainable hitch that there is _still_ a little something in him which regrets the day they rescued John from the hangman’s noose, and that makes everything before it all the worse. John Marston will one day be the death of him, Arthur is sure of this fact, but for now they must work together to accomplish a task which to Arthur seems most difficult of all;  for now, they must simply both continue to live.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for I am but one sad gay alone in the wilderness of this story. Also sorry not sorry but, I love writing nature porn!!!!! wow! mountains!!!!! boner!!!!!!!! What I thought would be a quick in and out 2 parter has rapidly grown in size and scope, and suddenly I don't know where this story is taking me anymore???? This is a wild ride for sure, and I am just gonna let it take me where it wants to go! Maybe it is 6 chapters, maybe it is 10, maybe it is 4???? Maybe it is 40?? I don't know?????? This is unbeta'ed, it is only me writing for masochism and for fun, drifting along on the current of inspiration like a river, and I am finding more and more that this pre-game Arthur is too too satisfying to dig into. I'm not sure I have the strength to take this story at this pace all the way through to Arthur's death or not, but I sure am considering it, though time will tell on that one. For now let me know what yall think of the pacing, characterizations you might like better than others, etc! Fanfictions exist to please the fandom, so as long as you guys are having fun, then that is what matters! I am certainly enjoying this ride. Thanks so much to everybody who so far have left very thoughtful and kind comments, your words are literally fuel that propels my writing more on this project, so I am very grateful! Hope yall enjoyed this first say gay cowboy chapter of the new year, and know the next chapter I have planned will be a little spicier than this one! xoxo see you next time


	4. Chapter 4

Everything has a price. Arthur has been dealing so long in the business of circumnavigating consequence in favor of only gain that he knows in the end there is a balance which must eventually be paid it’s due. When he speaks harshly to Dutch after one too many days of feeling too raw, Arthur’s price is being sent on a grunt mission to see about digging the new camp latrine. When he misidentifies a plant on a rabbit hunt and seasons his stringy meat with poisonous leaves, his price is the extra rainy day spent languishing in intestinal pain out alone in the middle of a stretch of land where no trees grow. He deserves this, he thinks. It is appropriate that his weakness and stupidity should generate his own punishment, but he still cannot help his worrying. Arthur figures, his many bad deeds over the years are plenty enough reason for the universe to ask he pay a little something back, but it is not until he has lost John to fate that Arthur thinks the price of everything has finally become too high.     

 

Loneliness is a dry, nasty sort of business. It is brutish in the way that it has no care for Arthur’s daily activities, that he must look again and again at the thing he cannot have, and more times after that at all the reasons that it must be so.  There is the swell of Abigail’s belly, and the flint in Dutch’s eye, and the hunger all others regard him with in need of his sundry assistances. There are buckets to fill and animals to skin, and vegetables to root and horses to brush and chickens to feed and there are songs to sing and whiskey to drink and hours and hours and hours upon even more hours of the noises of the camp at night to listen to in vain for the sound of a single name which surely will never come again. 

 

Surely.   

  
  


~

 

Mary-Beth bumps into Arthur as he is hefting a bale of hay for the horses up over one shoulder one afternoon, and he doesn’t drop it but he stumbles a little, and suddenly he hears something hit the grass and Mary-Beth’s hands are on him as if she might somehow unimaginably be able to support his weight if he falls down. He laughs to gloss over the fumble and steadies himself without her help, surely he would crush her if he let her assist, but after a glance he sets the bail down anyway and bends over to pick up what she has dropped. It is a small black notebook. He gives it a look before passing it back, and she clutches it to her chest a little faster than is necessary. “Oh! Arthur, I’m so sorry! I was so desperately lost inside my head just now, are you alright?”

 

“Fine,  _ fine _ . What’s that you got there?” Arthur rumbles, curiosity getting the better of him, and at first she looks startled, but then she blushes a pretty sort of pink and smiles at her shoes. “It’s nothing… Just, well-- it’s only a bit of-- I’ve been messing around with a few poems.” 

 

When Arthur cocks his head even further, he grows conscious of the way she is so much smaller than he is. She looks back up at him and he knows he should be flattered she has trusted him with even this much about her life. She takes a moment in consideration of whether or not that trust has been fully earned, and Arthur stands up straighter, unconsciously attempting to fix whatever it is she wants to judge. In the end, whatever she sees apparently has been found satisfactory, because she releases the book from her chest and flips it open. The book is filled with a loopy collection of handwritten stanzas. When she shakes her head at it and smiles, her curls drop down in a pretty way about her face. “You know, I fancied I could be a writer one day! It’s silly. I was just thinking about a poem I’d like to write about this place.”

 

“Is that so?” There is kindness in Arthur’s voice, he tries so hard to be tender to all the girls, but there is a modicum of sincere interest in it too. Unconsciously, his body drifts a little closer, and he cranes his neck as subtly as he can manage in order to peer down into her open book. “ _ Hmm _ ...Looks like you done got a few already... How’sabout,  _ well… _ would you mind to read to me for a little?” 

 

Immediately Arthur thinks he has scared her off with his request, because she snaps her book shut and takes a distinct step back. But she doesn’t leave, and she makes no excuse to find somewhere else to be, and when he offers her a reassuring smile again her tight shoulders seem to loosen up a little. “You… I mean, I’m no good, Arthur,  _ really… _ You mean you wouldn’t think that you’d be  _ dreadfully bored? _ ” 

 

“ _ No _ ,” Arthur assures her, and he knows that this is absolutely true. He takes an exaggerated seat on the hay bale, all creaking limbs and knees spread wide, and he pats the empty space beside him until with a glitter of excitement Mary-Beth plops down too and promptly sticks her nose back into her book. 

 

“Okay! Here’s one-- Promise you won’t laugh at me, Arthur, don’t you dare! I know it’s all rotten, but--” She trails off, looking severe, and Arthur nods her on and hunkers down over one knee to have a listen. She doesn’t need to finish her sentence for him to understand.  Mary-Beth sits up straight and her reading voice is too majestic; she juices her pauses and syllables as if she were a very fine lady stood up on a stage, every spotlight lit upon her figure. 

 

_ “Great retreating mountainsides!  _

_ Faces clad in knives of ice! _

_ You ghostly pallor never changing  _

_ Is this God’s divine paradise?” _

 

When she looks over at him expectantly, Arthur nods again, his smile a twitch at the corner of his mouth. The poem is nothing special, but it is  _ hers _ , and so Arthur supposes it is beautiful for that reason alone. “That’s just  _ fine _ , Mary-Beth, I like the mountains around these parts same as you. What else?” 

 

Clearing her throat, she lifts her book back up again and reads another; 

  
  


_ “Why do I dwell amongst the clouds? _

_ The sky sinks down to touch my face, _

_ The noble sun I take for my husband, _

_ I long for his warm embrace!” _

 

This poem is even worse, and Arthur has to choke back a grimace. He thinks he manages the feat fairly well, because Mary-Beth seems to take his continued nodding as a good sign, and she rifles through the next few pages of her book looking quite committed. “Now, some of them don’t exactly  _ rhyme _ , mind you, but… I don’t know, they come to me sometimes and I can’t settle down until I’ve written them out! Oh, I wish what was in my  _ head _ could come out of my  _ mouth _ !” 

 

Arthur does not think he has ever agreed with another human’s sentiment quite as much as he does with this one. Mary-Beth runs her finger along the page until she finds a piece she likes, and then she is reading again in a slow, clear voice;

 

_ “Kneel before the majesty of the purple mountains, _

_ We are all but sheep lost inside this windy winding canyon--  _

_ I lift the dark earth to my lips and partake of it’s bitter juices, _

_ Oh-- how beautiful it is to lie here rotting into dust!” _

  
  


For a long moment, Arthur lets the quiet stretch out. This poem is different, and he savors the words with a distant gaze. He supposes, though it does not rhyme, there is something beautiful because of that. It seems a sketch with words of a particular feeling, a feeling he has had very recently. He doesn’t nod, but he feels Mary-Beth’s eyes on his face until he jerks out of his reverie and looks back over. “That’s--” He hums his approval and finally does nod his head, feeling satisfied. “ _ That’s very nice,  _ Mary-Beth, very nice indeed. Thank you.” 

 

She looks heartfelt when she snaps her book shut and clutches it to her chest again. “ _ Thank you _ , Arthur. You’re a kind man.”  

 

When she has gone and Arthur is left sitting on the hay bale alone with his thoughts, he thinks of the empty journal John has given him, which still lies untouched at the bottom of his satchel. He is not sure he has the strength yet to open it up and lay a pencil to that first page, because every time he touches it all he sees is John smiling in the summer sunlight. He has avowed that that business is done and over with, and he means to keep it that way, but his hurt is still a slow poison, and he is not sure how to suck the venom from his wound. Arthur is afraid that this is a wound that might one day fester if he leaves it unattended, and he is not sure what means he will use to purge the rot out of his heart when that eventually happens, but for now he finds he cannot touch the journal. The open sore is still too fresh to treat. 

 

Arthur is a little envious of Mary-Beth right now, and her fetterless easy poetry. All he is left with at the moment is only to trace the shape of the wilderness with his eyes. He can only dwell in silence on the colors the sky makes when the sun sinks beneath the blue bowl of the mountains, and the day vanishes quietly into night. 

 

~

 

Fall approaches as a chilly wind down into the basin of the valley. Abigail is round and ornery, and John is miserable at telling her the things she needs to hear. Arthur watches them dance around each other and argue with a hint of incredulity on top of all the rest of his feelings, and though he is loathed to involve himself further in any way, eventually he finds everybody’s life is easier if he just takes care of the things that need doing. Arthur is the one up on his horse and out to catch a turkey when Abigail wants to eat it, and Arthur is the one shoving an extra stack of pelts into her arms and seeing about Pearson stitching her together some fur and leather boots when the weather takes its first blustery turn. Arthur is even the one taking Abigail’s swollen feet in his lap to rub them, and this is a penance for his past mistakes in so many different ways that Arthur is sure he could not even begin to list them all. Abigail is his friend first and foremost, and as raw and painful as that situation continues to be, Arthur has already long ago made up his mind that he would treat  _ all _ the women in camp with the gentleness and respect they deserve. 

 

Arthur finds as the season changes into a gradation of dull browns that he has no trouble speaking with Abigail truthfully, but this seems to be only because she has never asked him any questions he does not want to hear. He does his best to treat John normally, even to invite him to drink sometimes if he can stand it, but he still often wonders if there is any part of Abigail that suspects John’s loyalties have lead him anywhere other than their camp marriage bed. 

 

John’s efforts towards Abigail in comparison are almost never welcome. Even when John does the things required of him, often enough in her eyes it seems like his labors are almost no good at all. She is irate with him most days, furious with him even more, and on the days that are good, they are the ones when she accepts his ministrations with a zipped lip and an edgy stare. Arthur knows they have said awful things to one another, he has heard nearly all of it personally, because  _ everybody _ has. They have said things so awful that Arthur would have long ago knocked John in the dirt with a broken nose if their positions were reversed.  But then he supposes John and Abigail are the same in that way, they are both wretched and wonderful, and there is a sort of poetic balance about it. Arthur figures, all her icy performing is only to protect the hidden tenderness of her heart; he thinks she loves John truly, and Arthur certainly cannot blame her for an ounce of that feeling. He only wishes that some days, he would not be forced in such a way to watch it happen in front of him.

  
  


~

 

 

John dies a little every year as the summer ends. A little spark goes out of him. Not too much, of course, he has always been tenacious and blustery in a way that is liable to get a man’s arm broken, but summertime is John’s season, and the threat of encroaching winter has always fallen on him as a pale pallor. These days, Arthur watches John move about the camp and he thinks there is something  _ extra _ sucked out of him this year, other than his normal cold weather malaize; Arthur could not say with words exactly what it is, but he knows deep down in his heart the silent reason for it. Sometimes, it is too painful to look at John, to see him sitting by the fire with his hat shoved too hard on his head and a look on his face like he is lost somewhere in a very bad memory. Sometimes, Arthur thinks he cannot stand it. John has not smiled in a very long time, not even in the moments when Abigail will offer him a modicum of affection, or a small crumb of praise, and the deadness at the bottom of his stare grows so intense that for a while Arthur finds he cannot look at him at all. Arthur looks instead for the work that needs doing and then he does it, and sometimes he still goes out for those lonely rides beneath the stars that he has always loved so much, but more often than not Arthur finds that when he is alone, he cannot help but dwell on the limbless shape of John sitting quietly defeated. 

 

They speak to each other but they say nothing. Most of John’s concerns are mere vanities, Dutch wants a silver fox pelt, Miss Grimshaw has requested a special herb for a cream for Abigail’s stomach. But they do not speak of anything of any real weight like they used to, and John does not ask Arthur for his help in anything that really matters. Things continue on like this though autumn, and into the crispness of young winter. The sight of John in the morning with that dead look in his eye, and with a fresh powder of white snow dusting his black hair is too lovely, and it is altogether too painful for Arthur to even bear considering it. 

 

~

 

 

Jack is born early in the morning in December, before the sun has even risen, and he is a screamer just like his parents. Arthur does not think he has ever heard such a racket come out of something so small, and he has killed more rabbits by accident on his horse than he can even account for. 

 

It is a relief the entire camp feels together that Abigail has come through her pregnancy and the birth unharmed. It is a common thing for childbirth to take the lives of mothers and babes alike. Arthur knows this; it is a fear he has felt before. But he also thinks with a start as he looks down at the child that there was never _a moment_ over the last few months that he feared Abigail’s fate would push her south. She is strong, and more determined than a snapping turtle to cling to the things she believes in, and there is still a burning strength in her eyes now, along with an incredible pride, as she hoists her bloody baby up in her arms. Perhaps she did not want so much to be a mother, just as John did not want to be a father, but she is a mother now, and it blazes all around her as clear as the noontime sun. 

 

After John has held the baby awhile, staring down at Jack as if he were a wagon spoke and not an infant at all, Miss Grimshaw plucks him up and turns around with a mind to give him over to Arthur next. Abigail is smiling fondly when Arthur backs up in trepidation, with his hands out as if to repulse the honor, and his mouth is full of attempts at denial; “No,  _ no, no _ , it ain’t right, Abigail, I shouldn’t-- it’s not--  _ I’m not _ \--” but then the baby is shoved into his arms anyway, and Arthur is looking down at something he thought he would never again get another chance to see. 

 

It is a sharp, cruel spike of memory that comes up in Arthur’s throat as he holds little Jack, and the rest of the world for that moment entirely fades away. Little Isaac is always and forever with Arthur, and he recalls the long-ago night he held his own son like this in exactly such a bundle. He had not been allowed to know that child well, the opportunity had been taken from him, cruelly and quickly, and without a chance for revenge until the time had already passed. But there is something about the weight of a newborn baby that one cannot forget; the very fragileness of it, barely even there. And yet a baby is full to bursting. It is a very bright thing indeed, heavy as the universe because it contains the spark of hope in a future which has not yet been written. 

 

Arthur wonders as he holds Jack if he will grow up to have his father’s hair, since he seems already to have his mother’s eyes, and he looks up just in time to see John curling his fingers back from a hand that had partially been raised in the air in his direction. As the happy chatter of the camp surrounds them, they look at each other truthfully for the first time in weeks. John’s eyes are sad, and Arthur knows he must have betrayed those old memories of Isaac plainly on his face. He hands the baby gently back to Abigail and lays a hand on her head, and then he knows he can have no more part in the night’s festivities. 

 

Dutch breaks open a bottle of champagne with a very fine saber Hosea had stolen from a stupid, wealthy general for his birthday, and a boisterous cheer rises up throughout the camp in celebration of new life. Javier begins to play his guitar and the camp bursts into song and dance, and Arthur retreats to sit by the lake. He needs the quiet to be alone with his memories. 

 

~

 

  
  


It is a wet winter. Arthur thinks the outside world looks like his insides when the long stretch of January bleeds out in a seemingly endless sheet of gray rain. Everything is always a little damp, and therefore a little colder than is preferrable, and by February there is a musty smell of mildew that has grown common in the camp. Mr. Pearson and Miss Grimshaw have taken it upon themselves to assure each campfire stays blazing bright, and the most common sight of all becomes groups of no less than five of them all shrouded together in extra layers, in a huddle about the fire pits. 

 

Baby Jack is still very good at screaming. He bellows his feelings about the rainy world so loud and well that eventually his tiny voice grows hoarse, and he begins to cough. It seems he is doing all of John’s screaming for him too, because the sound of his wails are a perfect match for the look of misery on John’s face as he sits and listens to Abigail’s fruitless attempts to sooth him back into quiet. For a while Arthur is afraid the baby has caught the Whooping Cough, but Abigail feeds him spoonfuls of honey, and lets him suckle the corner of a soft cloth soaked in whiskey, and eventually little Jack regains his strength. He is as tenacious as his parents, and not for the first time, Arthur wonders what sort of man the child will one day grow up to become.

 

When the weather finally breaks and they catch a glimpse of blue sky stripped by yellow clouds, the camp assesses it’s supplies. The rain has rotted a fair portion of their dry stock, and the meats they had hung for jerky have taken a turn even in the cold weather.  Blue strips of mold have appeared to ruin the lot of it, and Pearson yanks it all down in disgust, then digs into his pocket for his whiskey flask. 

 

Dutch declares a state of emergency and sends small groups out to forage what they can, and Arthur finds when he is given the order to seek out the closest herd of Pronghorns and acquire some fresh meat, that he is very grateful indeed for the opportunity to strike out awhile on his own. He feels a little pity for John, who is commanded to stay and guard the baby despite his very vocal insistence on joining any hunt, but the opportunity to stop looking at the horrible shape his face is always making, even for just a few days, for Arthur is a secret and intense relief.    

 

~

  
  
  


Even in this hazy, rain-soaked landscape, there is yet some beauty to be found. The day Arthur rides out, there is a mist as thick as soup that disguises the shapes of the mountains, and turns every animal that drifts through it into a kind of ghost. He feels a little as if this natural paradise is teaching him another lesson, about the shape of things outside of him being just the same as the shape of things inside of him, but he cannot get any farther than that with thinking on this feeling.  He knows he is stupid, and wondering at such things cannot serve any purpose, and so he welcomes it when the afternoon sun burns off the fog and the sky blazes clear and bright when he comes upon a herd of elk that are gathered in the foothills. They are not  _ Pronghorns _ , like Dutch has specifically requested, but meat is meat, and Arthur is not in the business of being picky when his people are facing the threat of starvation. He takes down two does with his carbine, and makes camp under a clean blue sky, and hopes the clear weather will last. 

 

~

  
  


 

The moon cuts in too bright into Arthur’s dark-softened eyes when John finds him in the wilderness and jerks back the flap of his tent. It takes a moment to acclimate to it, but the shape of John cut out against the patchwork of twinkling stars is immediately unmistakable. Arthur unclenches his fingers from around the pistol near his head. When he slowly sits up, he passes an exhausted hand over his sleep-heavy eyelids. “You...  _ followin’ _ me, Marston?” he grumbles the question, not for the first, or indeed even for the  _ fiftieth _ time in his life.  

 

“What of it?” 

 

“ _ What of _ \--?” Arthur repeats incredulously, his thoughts still half gummed-up by sleep. He pinches the bridge of his nose hard enough to sting, and finds he can open his eyes a little better, and only then does he have the sudden panic that perhaps something back at camp has gone perilously wrong. “ _...the baby? _ ”

 

“ _ No _ ! No.” John waves Arthur’s concern away. “Jack’s just fine.” But there is something fleety and strange about John tonight. He is vivid with it, some secret clung to his insides like the very breath hidden in his lungs. He is skittish in the dirt in front of Arthur’s tent, and he puffs big clouds of vapor into the cold night air. His nose is red as a cherry. “Can we..? Uh, can we  _ talk _ a little?” 

 

Arthur knows this look, and immediately he is pulling the flap back down and sinking back into his sleeping roll in an attempt to retract from the situation entirely. “ _ No. Go home,  _ John.” 

 

“Damn it, Arthur, it ain’t bad!” John jerks forward and rips the flap back open.  “ _ Listen _ to me!”

 

“Can’t--  _ gone deaf _ .”  Arthur grunts again and rolls over to burrow his face into his bedroll, but then John is yanking on his boot and half dragging him back outside, “ _ No you ain’t, you rat bastard! _ ” and finally Arthur kicks him and sits up with the roaring groan of a miserable bear. Sometimes, John gets just like a dog with a bone; Arthur knows that he is not going to leave until he is heard. 

 

~

 

  
  


Arthur restokes his campfire until it leaps back up into a lively pit of gold and yellow, and he sits John down as far opposite of him as he can manage without entirely banishing him from the circle. As long as there is fire dividing them, then perhaps everything will be alright. When he looks over at the horse John has hobbled over by Friar Tuck, his first inclination is that John has packed a great many things. 

 

“Where you goin’, boy?” The question has an edge to it, but John only shrugs and takes off his hat to run his fingers through his hair. “Hunting.” He states definitively. 

  
  


Arthur is supposed to be hunting right now, but he is not hunting,  _ not really, _ and John has always been an excellent shadow, and John is  _ not supposed to be _ hunting, so when John says he is hunting it takes Arthur a minute to deduce whether or not he thinks this is actually true. He can see that John sees his suspicion, then John is stuffing his hat back on his head with a sigh. “I just-- I needed some  _ time _ . To get away from Abigail and the baby awhile.” 

 

Arthur nods. They listen to the fire crackle.

 

“... _ So _ .” It is strange after so much silence that it is Arthur who finds his words first this time, when it is almost entirely always John. He proceeds with caution, “What’s got you so bothered?”

 

He knows the question is too large for John when his eyes ricochet all over the fire, it is one of the tells that his rock of a brain is short circuiting. Arthur feels a pang of sympathy for him, and he holds out a hand to cease any answer which John might attempt to spit out-- “Wait,  _ don’t bother _ , it’s alright, if you just wanna sit here  _ real quiet and-- _ ” 

 

“--Thought I’d help  _ you _ with  _ your _ hunting a little.” John interjects, too forcefully, staring too hard at the tips of his boots. There is an awkward pause, and Arthur sets his hand back on his thigh. “Don’t need help.” He says, though he doesn’t say it unkindly. 

 

This is the first time Arthur thinks the sky feels too big. There is too much space between them, and simultaneously never enough. He cannot stop his lingering on John as of late, at the sight of him looking so despondent. 

 

“You know, about you, I--” John stutters, frustrated with whatever it is that he is lacking. “Well,  _ for you _ , I think maybe… aw, hell. You  _ know _ I’d die for you, Arthur, don’t you?”

 

Now Arthur knows _ for sure _ there is something bigger on John’s mind. But Arthur doesn’t know what to do with this information, and so he only grouses back at him like a brother, and rips apart a twig then flings it with an agitated jerk down into the fire. “Yeah well, don’t go doin’  _ that  _ for me _ neither _ , you hear? Why don’t you just leave all the dyin’ up to old Arthur and mind your own goddamn business. You got a family to tend to, and you’re too dumb to be worth much of anything to anyone else if you die too young anyways.”

 

“Thanks,” John says, a little lamely, “ _...I guess. _ ”

 

Arthur offers John a bit of grilled meat, and he accepts it gratefully. For a while he just chews and contemplates, awash in firelight, and then they are both looking up at the silver stars. The heavens bend and twist in directions neither of them understand, for reasons they’ll never know, and not too far to the east Arthur can see that yet another winter storm has begun to brew. He looks at it and he thinks with a disappointed sigh that these days, nothing ever seems to go according to plan.

  
  


~

 

  
  


It is not the patter of icy rain against the canvas of his tent that wakes Arthur up the next time, but again it is the shape of John as he pushes past the tent flap. Arthur half rises on an elbow and mutters a sleep-thick “ _ whrtsit? _ ” which is maybe a “ _ what is it? _ ” but is far closer to nonsense words than anything nearly real. John looks pathetic with his hair wet and his shoulders dripping, and he only mutters an apologetic, “ _ Raining _ ,” before Arthur groans and drops his head back against the hard ground. The damn fool didn’t take his own tent with him, and there is something about that fact that Arthur can’t quite decide if it feels like simple stupidity, or if it feels like a trap.  He holds his decision in for too-long a moment, laden with palpable dislike, and then he is reluctantly shuffling over onto his side and settling back into his blanket to make a little room for John to fit into the tent too. When John climbs in behind him shivering hard enough to shake his bedroll, Arthur sighs very quietly and listens to the sound of it for a while. He doesn’t want to offer his sympathies, and truthfully he would rather have told John to stay outside the tent completely, but the thought of sending him back to Abigail having caught his death of cold  is at war with that little bit of hurt deep down that still loves John in an unnatural sort of way, and so his stomach is in knots and he can no longer sleep the second he has allowed John inside. He pretends he feels none of this, and hopes the broad flat of his back is a better actor than his face. 

 

“Arthur,” John’s whispering voice is like a knife through the dark. Arthur pretends to be asleep until John pokes him in the spine. “ _ Arthur _ !”

 

“Hmm?” 

 

“My roll is soaked, give me some of yours!” 

 

Arthur groans like a beleaguered father and adjusts his blanket so that a little falls over the side, and before he is ready for it John is clinging against his back and wrapping himself into the warm space. Arthur hisses and an icy shot goes down his spine. “ _ You’re freezing wet! _ ” He yelps too loud and drops an elbow back into John’s ribs, now very thoroughly awake indeed. John grunts “ _ sorry _ ,” and pulls back, and the tent is filled with the squeaking leather sound of his jacket being shed, and then he’s back against Arthur again, warmer, and this time thankfully dry.

 

When the quiet settles again, it is the painful sort. Arthur thinks that this reminds him a little of the summer John wanted to do everything together with him, after Abigail had first left Arthur for Sean. It is a great cruelty, retrospectively, because Arthur knows this was around the time he was first discovering his real feelings for John. The nights they slept together in the same tent were some of the best in Arthur’s life at that time, not because they had been intimate then, but because he was so startled in the first place that John had  _ wanted _ to touch him at all. Now, John’s arms are too eager as they wrap around his chest, much too close for them to pretend there is no motive in it, and Arthur knows John  _ still _ wants to touch him now. Even though he is wide awake, Arthur does not think he has ever felt so tired.      

 

“ _ Behave _ ,” Arthur rumbles, and he feels John press his forehead into his shoulder. They are much too close. For a while again, they are both quiet together with only the sound of the icy rain. 

 

“ _...I can’t do this no more _ .” The whisper is very small, and it takes a moment for Arthur to realize what has just been said. He jerks a little to twist an ear back and hear him better, but John is rubbing his face into Arthur’s shoulder now, and the hands on Arthur’s chest begin to smooth in circles. “It’s too goddamn  _ difficult _ , Arthur, I think I’ll die from it!” 

 

“What’d I tell you about dyin’?” Arthur rebuts with half a joke in his voice, even though his insides are in snarls, and he finally drags a hand up to try to still John’s wandering touch. But John only wraps his fingers around Arthur’s hand and threads them together, and it is so intimate there can be no denying it’s meaning. It is these tender moments, like the one in the Blackwater Inn when John had clung to Arthur’s neck like a lost child, that Arthur’s biggest sins have always lain. This naked understanding of affection is too much. It is too bright and large and gorgeous. It burns like fire.   

 

“ _ John… _ ” Arthur’s heart is thick in his mouth, and he wonders what he must sound like because he cannot hear his own voice. He tries to jerk his hand away, but John only shifts his grip to his wrist. “ _ Enough _ of that.” 

 

“ _ Day in, day out, _ it’s always the same! Just…  _ workin’ _ , and Abigail  _ naggin’ _ at me, and the baby  _ cryin’ _ , and, I dunno, I think Dutch is mad too. I think I’m going, well… I think I’ve  _ already gone _ plumb  _ crazy _ .”    
  
“Don’t be  _ too _ bothered, you was born crazy.” Arthur grunts, and he feels John shift behind him to reply “I guess that must be so,” and then John’s fingers are leading Arthur’s face around to trap his lips in a kiss.    

 

This is a mistake. It is _more_ than a mistake, it is a _purposeful_ _indiscretion_. But there is the memory of John’s hair dusted in snowflakes in the morning light, and then there are Mary Linton’s letters telling Arthur that he is a failure, and there is Arthur sitting out by the lake and considering all of his life’s previous losses, and he cannot help but to kiss John back. He knows he is weak. Arthur has failed and failed and failed again at so very many things, and he has grown old without gaining altogether too much wisdom either, but he thinks he knows when he is doing wrong, and this seems to be the very living moment of sin. The real stitch is only that he is not strong enough to turn John away this time. Not after so many relentless days of watching him pace around the camp seeming more dead than living. And John is always, always watching Arthur when his back is turned. That has never changed. It is too much, and Arthur finds in that moment like a horrible crack into the shape of his life that he cannot bear it. John has found him again, against all odds, like he always seems to do in the dark. 

 

Just like he remembers them, John’s fingers are sneaky and purposeful. Once Arthur’s tongue is in John’s mouth, his hand takes an unapologetic and unsubtle dive to Arthur’s pants, and he is tearing them open with a skill that makes Arthur think that John should not know how to do this quite half so well as he does. He takes Arthur in his hand and jerks him in a firm grip, but this time he does it slow, and Arthur breaks away to gasp like a winded animal. When  _ exactly _ did John learn to relax his breakneck pace, even just a little? Certainly, he must have taken a lesson or two from Abigail, and for a moment Arthur struggles with the fact that she has permanently joined their bed, such as it is, insomuch that Arthur has likely also joined theirs. It is one more sin on top of altogether too many already, and Arthur finds he cannot give that thought a single additional inch of space. 

 

John makes quick work of the blanket, tearing it off them and shoving it into the corner before an old twinkle of his real self returns and he climbs up on top of Arthur as if he’s preparing to ride a bucking bronco. The memory alone strikes Arthur immediately as hard as a rock, and at once he feels like he has lost control of the situation, as well as of himself. Arthur’s fingers are dumb as they fumble with John’s buttons, but the shirt goes when they work together at the task. John is paler underneath his clothes, his covered skin not as subject to his dusty, sunfried lifestyle, and Arthur takes a moment to touch his ribs where they poke out at his sides. John has always been too thin. Arthur’s shirt is the next victim to their fervor, and the air is frigid. It feels much too cold to have no clothes, and additionally the rain is blowing into the tent in intermittent gusts-- It mists John’s bare back with rivulets of ice, and Arthur wipes away the wet with the flats of his palms. He tries to think nothing of this sin but only of the moment, surely if he second guesses himself now then all of this will go right to to hell, and so he smooths away the rain off of John’s skin until it glistens and prickles in the dark. 

 

There is a howling in all of this. It is not quite the wind, and it is not quite a wolf, but all the same the feeling carries them along on a mournful note, and John slips down the bedroll and takes Arthur’s length in his mouth. It is the first (-- _ only, last _ \-- Arthur bemoans internally) time John has done this for him, and it is so inappropriate that he is afraid he will spend himself right there. But then John slows down again, slow to the point of agony, slow to the point that it reminds Arthur of the worshipful way he had once taken John in his own mouth that summer night a lifetime ago, and he grows afraid that John is worshipping him right now, very unduly. When he fights John in an attempt to pull him back up again, instead John presses his thumb into a very particular spot beneath his balls and swallows down Arthur whole, gripping him stiffly at the root, and Arthur comes with a shocked gasp into his mouth. John sucks it down like a parched man, and when he pulls off again Arthur is horrified to see that he is  _ still hard _ , despite John’s best efforts. Or, he thinks with exhaustion and suspicion,  _ because of them _ ? John is looking at him like a hungry poacher, after all, his face screwed up and red with lust and purpose, and again Arthur feels a little resentment at Abigail’s unspoken presence in the bed, when he knows in fact that it is him who is the criminal in this situation. Arthur runs his fingers through John’s wild clumps of damp hair, and his pulse feels deceitfully, shamefully greedy in his throat. John is still the wild animal he remembers, and he thinks with a thrill of villainy, if he is going to steal something, then he might as well just go ahead and get on with it already. 

 

When Arthur pushes John over onto the flat of his back, he flings him far enough up into the tent that his head pushes into the heavy canvas. Arthur compensates for the lack of headroom and just winds an arm around John’s lower back and bends to the task of yanking his jeans down around his skinny thighs. “This is the _ last time, you hear me _ ?” He grunts with a gruff voice that’s also too thick with lust, and John is nodding into his shoulder and wrapping his arms up around Arthur’s neck to anchor them together. He keeps nodding, again and again, too hard and too fast until Arthur takes John in his hand. John is already stiff and dripping; he is so hot to the touch that he feels a little like a slice of summer, a warm season that has somehow lost its way and wandered mistakenly into the ice-cold crevice of Arthur’s tent. Arthur cannot help but to roll into him, and they are both moaning muffled noises into each other’s necks in no time at all. 

 

_ “Where should-- _ ?” Arthur mutters as he runs his nose along John’s jaw, but John’s hand is already a graceless hammer slamming down onto his discarded jacket. He produces a small round tin one handed, and Arthur is surprised to see that it is only palmade. He pulls apart a little with his brows furrowed and a question in his look, but John is nodding again, his eyes so blazingly sure that soon Arthur is nodding too and he pops the lid off. It is not his brand, this one has very little smell except for animal grease of some kind, and he slides his fingers into the tin and warms it up until he can produce a sufficient scoop.  He looks at John again with worry in his eyes, John seems very close to a precipice of some kind that Arthur cannot identify, and everything about this situation is on the precarious edge of a knife, but then John is John about it and he grabs Arthur’s hand and leads it roughly to where it belongs between his hairy legs. 

 

“Come on, you bastard,” John grits into Arthur’s ear as he pulls their torso’s together, flushing their skin, and then he makes a strangled sound when Arthur slowly pushes one finger into the puckered hotness of him. John is too tight, and he kicks out one of his tangled legs as his eyebrows draw together and his already too-flushed face screws up in a look of pain. Arthur stops right there, but then John is calling him more horrible names and yanking on his wrist with purpose, and so Arthur pushes in a little more, and then a little more. Soon enough John is making better noises; they are sharp groans that come from the gut that unsettle the hairs across Arthur’s ear while John clings to him, and Arthur cannot help but to love John even now, too closely and too intensely to stand. It is unbearable, and altogether too monstrous a thing. He can feel his need pulsing so close that he is afraid for a moment that the sound of John’s lust alone might be enough to push him over the edge again. it is only when John yanks on Arthur’s hair too hard and demands in that same old way of his,  _ “Damn you, just get on with it! _ ” that he slips his finger out and pulls his pants down just far enough to proceed with the task. 

 

Arthur is not so sure why he loves John as much as he does. John is loud and gruff and ungentlemanly, and he has acted a coward and a fool enough times to make even Hosea groan and close his eyes. But John is also hard working and tenacious, and bedeviled with a temper that books for no man’s harassments, and there is something noble about him that Arthur has watched grow over the years. Something that he has tried to tend to as best he can, to guide along with his more experienced hands. And of course Arthur is ever loyal. He has always desired to put his whole heart towards a thing, and up until now he has chosen his heart’s direction, but with John he found very quickly that there can be no order, no reason to the way he asks Arthur to bend his loyalty. Arthur can no longer put his thumb on the exact moment he knew for sure that he was in love with his brother in arms, perhaps it was when he sketched his portrait in the tree, or maybe it was somewhere riding fast and hard across the planes at sunrise, or maybe it was simply John’s permanent presence as a fixture in Arthur’s life, but he knows it is love now, with every fiber of his being. Because he loves John in such a way, he knows  _ it is right and it is true  _ to return him to his family, and so before he makes the effort to push into the hotness of John’s body, he takes a moment to run a tough hand along his face. The _ last touch _ before the _ last time  _ had better damn well mean something, he thinks, because before they are ready, again it will all too soon be gone.  

 

“You’ve always been such a goddamn  _ sentimentalist _ ,” John grouses, but he lets Arthur turn his head, and Arthur doesn’t miss the moment when John can no longer look him in the eye.  

 

“This is the last time,” Arthur repeats, low and rough, and John huffs fakely, looking anywhere but Arthur. 

 

“You said that already,” he mutters, “You think I’m  _ deaf, old man _ ?  _ Just do it. _ ”

 

“Boy!...Shoulda drowned you years ago,” There is too much love in Arthur’s jape, enough to burn them both. “Waste of my goddamn time.”  but the moment he can see John is on the cusp of a complaint, instead Arthur shoves inside of him. It is a single deep stroke that strangles the words out of John’s throat, and transforms them into a juddering, continuous moan.

 

This cannot happen again. Arthur breathes heavily into John’s neck as he begins to move his hips, feeling John’s struggles to pull his legs up around Arthur. But there is a problem; his pants are still half-on, and they are trapped under the weight of Arthur’s body. This suits Arthur just fine since there is something very dire in this moment, that he should hold John down and fuck him right here, exactly as he is, and make him listen for once when John is forever and always running away and taking what he wants and ignoring what other people tell him. If this is the last time,  _ the very last time, _ then Arthur will hold John together between his palms and love him completely, proving his affections with his actions in a way his words never could. But John will always be John, and soon enough he has kicked free out of half his pants and his legs wrap around Arthur’s waist anyway to pull himself up into each thrust, and his fingers become monstrous as they claw raw tracks down Arthur’s frozen back. When John bites Arthur savagely across the throat, Arthur thrusts so hard into him that he digs John’s neck and spine back into the dirt and they are both panting hard enough that it seems like one of them might die. 

 

_ “No more, _ ” Arthur grunts as John shoves up against him in a way that takes him all the way to the hilt. “ _ You hear me, Marston?” _ He struggles with his words, _ “ _ This!-- is the end.”

 

_ “It don’t have to be that way-- _ !” John’s voice is very sharply and suddenly desperate, “Things could be _ different, Arthur-- _ I met some  _ sick bastards _ in my life, but _ you…?” _

 

Arthur thinks he has at last dug to the core of him, and that it is only in this moment that he will finally be able to get John to speak what he truly thinks. But Arthur is not so cruel as all that, not even to himself, he knows what John wants to hear and that he cannot give it, and so he only yanks John closer and fucks him harder into the ground, pressing his forehead into John’s throat as John’s hands dig wildly in his hair. “ _ Come on, boy _ ,” He breathes into John’s skin as he sinks into his hotness, “ _ come on. _ ” 

 

“Arthur,  _ you sonofabitch, just tell me _ this ain’t over already!” 

 

Arthur bites his bare shoulder in response, hard enough that John hisses in actual pain, then bucks up against him until Arthur is forced to shove his struggling limbs back flat on the ground with an authority that leaves John gasping. Arthur can feel John’s skin prickling up beneath his lips, with cold and with terror and with pleasure too, and as sure as he can feel the electricity in the air when a storm comes, he knows that all of this is bound to end, and much too soon than he is prepared for.

 

“ _ Easy _ ,” Arthur whispers in John’s ear, even as he feels his balls tightening. It is as much a reminder for himself as it is for John. The pool of heat at his base is growing nearly unbearable, but somehow he still finds the patience to smooth John’s hair back from his face. “ _ Shhhh, settle down _ .” He tries to reassure, and he feels John’s body open up a little more beneath him. He does not want to hurt. This is not at all like when he has ever touched a woman, when he is always little afraid to be too rough, but it is a touch that is committed and smooth and sure, as if he is stroking a beloved animal, and it is the most honest thing Arthur thinks that he can do. He loves John. _ Of course he loves John _ , but they both know that John cannot have what he wants, this time.

 

“ _ Stay, you coward! _ ” John spits out the wretched, futile words, and it takes a minute for Arthur to realize that there is a fresh wetness on John’s face that has nothing at all to do with the rain. John is not crying, he has never cried insofar as Arthur has seen, not even as a boy, _ he is too goddamn stubborn, _ but he is very nearly close to it now, and Arthur grips John’s hair and pushes back into him harder and faster in an effort to distract. John’s misery transforms to lust again like a magic trick, and he is so close that Arthur can taste it in the sound of John’s breath.  He does not want to end this, because then it is all truly done, but Arthur is close enough too that soon it will be wrenched form him whether he wants it or not. He knows this all, but so does John, and so when John punches up against Arthur’s shoulder with an angry fist and threatens, “ _ Just get it over with, already _ \--” he finally lets the moment take him, if only because he cannot physically hold on to it for a second more. Arthur comes, and John’s fist is working at his own hardness as Arthur goes deep as he can. When he feels John come too, trembling around him as he cuts loose a scorched sound like he has been burnt, it is so intimate a sensation on Arthur’s softening parts that it seems a wretched kind of pain all by itself, one last goodbye gift to herald the end of everything.

 

They breathe on each other like winded horses awhile in the aftermath, Arthur’s head planted in his sleeping roll by John’s shoulder, and John does not try to touch him anymore, but he does not try to push him off either. They are warmed by their physicality to the point that it does not seem half so cold, and for what feels like long minutes, only dragged down further by sadness, they only listen to the icy sound of the rain pattering against the canvas roof of the tent. 

 

“You son of a bitch.” John says after a while, not in anger, but only with sorrow, and that is the moment Arthur knows it is all well and truly ended. 

 

~

 

 

The sky is grey and close to the point of being white when Arthur rolls out of his tent in the morning, unequivocally alone. He is not sure when John must have left, only that his horse’s tracks lead eastward, and he knows he is not meant to follow.  He does not think that he would follow even if the invitation was clear, because everything about John has extracted such an effort out of Arthur that he thinks his reserves have been depleted near to emptiness. John has always done exactly what he wants, excepting for when Dutch tells him to do a thing, or on the rare occasion when Hosea or Arthur himself tell him too, but Arthur does not worry in quite the same way as he would if Lenny struck out alone, or if Sean did, or Tilly or any of the rest.  With his six shooter at his side, John is more than capable of caring for himself, and when he has had his fill of riding and brooding and shooting birds down out of the sky, he will be back, same as always. It has always been his way, and Arthur thinks they know each other by now a fair bit _ too _ well. He rubs a tired hand across his face to bring some life back into it, and then he slowly begins to break down his things in preparation for the day’s ride. 

  
  


~

 

 

When Arthur returns to camp, it is Abigail who is first to greet him. He thinks the sight of her should cause him more immediate pain than it does considering his recent sin, but she is sick with worry like he has seen young mothers often are, and Arthur finds she folds into his arms with very little trouble at all. John has not come home, and Arthur lets the first spike of concern touch him then, though it is still a distant fear, because he alone knows very well that John’s last mood was something terrible. He says to Abigail that maybe he is only out expelling a devil or two, and that he will be back once his exorcism is done. In the past, John has always run away when he is sad or mad or ashamed about a thing, it is a bad habit that unfortunately he has carried over from childhood, but there has also never been a time when he has not returned with a penitent look and a will to work. And so Arthur sits Abigail down, and he feeds her a chunk of bread, and a bit of stew, and she grips onto his arm with appreciation and smiles at him, and then Arthur quietly goes to speak with Dutch a little about how long the boy has really been gone.  

~

 

 

John has been gone for three weeks when Arthur begins to rise before the sun, stricken by worry. He takes Charles and Hosea out on horseback to see if they can track evidence of John’s travels, John after all has always been no good at covering his own trail, but the sinking truth Arthur cannot speak is that he already knows the tracks are too old by now to follow. John has gone east, but there is no way to know if he has been overrun by bandits, though again this is a thought Arthur thinks cannot really be true. No one lives near to their deserted lakeside camp, not for miles, and John can shoot a man’s hat off from a hundred yards even when he’s blinded by the sun, and so the dark truth of things slowly begins to settle into the pit of Arthur’s stomach, in the shape of a mortal dread. 

  
  


~

A month has passed and Abigail nowadays spends most of her time crying. It is the low, gentle moan of someone mourning the dead, and the sound of it fills the camp with the ugly reality of the thing, even though none among them have dared yet to say it aloud. Until one morning Arthur comes upon Dutch and Hosea sitting at the table, their hands threaded together, and he hears that they are not trying to disguise their conversation about it at all. Arthur supposes their grief must be the keenest, because he himself knows the pain of having once lost a son. But it is still a wretched thing to behold, and when they see him, Hosea offers out a hand and Arthur goes over to kneel between them at the table. 

 

“I think this must be the end of it,” Hosea says kindly to Arthur as he presses a gentle hand to his shoulder. “No use in pretending in a fairytale that won’t do nobody a lick of good.”

 

“ _ Insufferable _ ,” Dutch agrees in that blustery way he has, but quieter, a more private grievance meant for only them. Their small family has lost something very precious indeed, and they are together in the moment to share and feel the keenness of that sting. “ _ Completely barbaric _ , leaving Abigail alone in her time of need.”  

 

“She has us! And anyway, it’s nearly time to move on.” Hosea murmurs, and they all know the weight of that. They have already lingered here a little too long. 

 

“ _So be it.”_ Again, Dutch falls back on his bluster. He is good at covering his sadness with rough command, and then he jerks back up to a proud stand on stiff legs. “If he can _find us_ again then I suppose I might not scalp him. A good tar and feathering should do quite _nicely_ _instead_ , gentlemen, don’t you agree?” It is rhetorical, as most of Dutch’s grand pronouncements usually are, and he leaves no room for reply; he just stalks away before either of them have a chance to chime in on this judicious plan, and Hosea looks after Dutch with a long, lingering gaze. When he looks back to Arthur again, he tries to smile, but it is a failure on several levels. “Give him some more time.” He says, and Arthur is not sure if he means Dutch or John. But then Hosea stands up and he is off too, in a completely different direction than the one Dutch took, no doubt in order to let him simmer. Arthur thinks that his fathers know each other very well, but maybe they do not know Arthur quite as well as he had originally thought. 

 

Arthur rises, and then he sits again heavily back into the seat Hosea has recently occupied, and he sets his forehead in his palm. He knows his faith in John all this time has been in vain, betrayal is the darkest and most wretched thing imaginable, but the cruelest stroke by far is hearing his fathers make the nightmare real.  _ This must be the end of it, _ Hosea has said, and Arthur can no longer see how this cannot be true. There is a camp to care for, and money to acquire, and the lives of all of them together are struck in a balance so precarious that a loss like this is liable to tilt them over and ruin it all. Arthur only knows that he cannot let this happen. He has been far too weak for far too long, and now that time is done. He must take all things into account and become a pillar to compensate for this loss. He thinks a little that taking the weight of the camp more fully on his shoulders might even bring a welcome change to things, in comparison to this empty void of despair he has been battling as he struggles with hiding from the finality of John’s absence. It is only anger, in the end, that saves him. It creeps in slow but then stokes quickly hotter, and it is exactly the thing that makes Arthur finally accept what deep down, he already knows to be true; 

 

John has up and run away.  _ John is gone _ , and it very well may be that he will never return.  

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my GOD SENT MISSION to get Arthur LAID, ladies and gentlemen I offer you this chapter. If I could have made this moment happy I would have, but this is canon-compliant, my sweet readers, and so I can only give this boning to you with a big fat hot serving of PAIN. It is only that Arthur hates himself so very much, he thinks that he is a useless miserable failure, when, in actual fact, he is a bonifide Grade A slab of hot man beef??? Holy shit @ how much high honor Arthur is the fucking greatest, but also the saddest dude on the planet. 
> 
> On a separate miserable note, prepare yourselves for the next chapter, which will be a JOHN POV chapter!!! I was going to give it a title unlike the other chapters, because it is a deviation from the normal format, and had some mixed thoughts on this subject initially. I was GONNA call it: 'The Adventures of Senor Fuckface In Flagrante Delicto', because it will follow what John is up to on his deadbeat jetsetter's year of being a literal human trash fire, but for the sake of brevity and cleanliness of concept, let the next chapter only be known as: 
> 
> 'JOHN IS GONE'


	5. Chapter 5

  


**JOHN IS GONE**

  


 

John likes Arthur’s big hands. He likes his thoughtful eyes that are always full of kindness. He likes his big dick and the hair on his chest, and he likes how Arthur looks with his black mask on so that he is only gazing dangerous blue, or wearing his bandoleer with his rifles crossed, hot and giddy from a robbery and teaching his horse to dance. John loves and hates the shape of Arthur’s back, especially when he sees it so far ahead of him in a race that it seems impossible to catch. He thinks if he reaches out his hand to touch it that it will always slip away, and that it is ever the fucking lesson learned about how to be a man. John feels ashamed of the way he wants to follow Arthur; he is grown now, and he should have already set aside such childish things, but when Arthur is not there anymore to look to where John needs to go, or to judge with a nod or a shake of the head the quality of the work he has done, John finds he is not nearly so grown up as he had originally thought.

  


The third week John is gone, he returns to the inn in Blackwater and gets drunk, and then he finds a barmaid to fuck in Arthur’s old room. He fucks her hard, and when her legs are spread in the air and her head is hanging over the edge of the mattress, she moans in incredulous enjoyment, “ _Whassamatter, darlin’? You break your own woman in half already?_ ” John’s only response to this is to violate her further, until she is screaming his name, but wrong, (“ _oh, James! Fuck me harder, James!_ ”) and then John breaks an actual chair in half, and then he breaks a desk, and then the owner of the inn has him by his jacket and is yelling in his face that he doesn’t have to go home but he can’t stay there. Before he knows it, John’s mouth is full of manure out in the muddy street, and his pants are still half down, and when he gets up again it is only to correct the attitudes of a few bystanders who have found this entire situation remarkably funny. John ends up being the one who is corrected when his one-on-three fistfight quickly becomes a _one-on-fifteen_ , but they let him off nice enough, doubtlessly because they find his situation pathetic. They leave him with a black eye and a busted lip, and a shoulder that won’t roll quite right again for a week, and when he rides out of town he is only half as damaged as he deserves.

  


There are train tracks two miles outside the growing settlement, and John rides out and sits on them awhile. He lies down on the trestle and rolls over from his stomach to his back, and when no train comes to hit him he gets up again and pulls out both his guns and starts shooting falcons down out of the evening sky. He does nothing with the carcasses, he is only shooting them for fun, and when the thrill of the hunt becomes boring, he returns again to Blackwater, still caked all over in mud. Again he gets too drunk, and then he shoots some old bastard’s whiskey glass clean out of his hand for telling him his hair makes him look like a wet shetland pony, and then he gets in a fistfight with somebody else entirely different, whose grievance he can no longer clearly recall. An indiscernible whiskey-blur of meaningless time passes before he attempts to pick up a married woman right in front of her husband, and he seems first and foremost disgusted by his haggard appearance, among a laundry list of other complaints. John asks the man’s wife to dance _, but it is not to dance_ , and this gets John thrown through yet another saloon window, which is not exactly what he had planned. He is blood-slick and regretful when he is back up on his horse and riding fast out of town, once again finding himself galloping away from the furious local law.

  


The mud has dried and mostly flaked off of John’s body when he has ridden far enough east that much of the snow has melted. He still does not have a tent, his old one is back at Dutch’s camp where he had left it with the specific intention of getting Arthur to let him climb inside of his, and it is very, very cold. Most nights, John sleeps with his roll out beneath the naked stars. It rains on him enough times that he thinks his horse looks semi-washed, and the blood on his clothes has mostly faded, and other than being much, much icier than he likes, John finds he enjoys the quiet emptiness well enough. He does not want to think of his family back home, the family he has left, and the misery of winter works well to disguise his sorrows from his mind.

 

John does not want to think of Dutch, who has him by the material wealth, and he does not want to think of little Jack, who has him by the honor. John especially does not want to think of Abigail, who has him by the balls, but more than anything he does not want to think of Arthur, who has him by the heart. John wishes he could tell each person individually that his feelings are his own, but he figures his supercilious exit is sufficient enough a middle finger.  

  


~

  
  


 

Despite his many efforts, John eventually thinks on his woes, all the same. He cannot help it, his brain is undisciplined when it comes to herding dangerous thoughts, and more often than not he finds that he is riddled with doubt. He thinks perhaps that everything he has ever believed in has always been a lie. He does not think he is the person that he has always tried to be, and he certainly does not think he is the person reflected back at him in Arthur’s parental gaze. To Dutch and Hosea, John must seem to be the muck on the bottom of a corpse’s shoe, and he cannot imagine in the slightest what Abigail must think of him. John is less than a dog now, and that is the honest truth of everything.

  


~

  
  


 

There is no escape from the passage of time. John wishes he could go back to the beginning of it all, to the day he nearly swung. He rides across the plains and watches the movements of clouds and sun and stars, and more clouds again over his head, and it is all a constant clock of the weary world moving on around him, while somehow, he still stays in the same damnedable place. His horse is galloping, and the landscape is slowly and steadily changing, but John is still _stuck_ , precisely where he is. He is kidding himself when he thinks that he is getting farther away, that he is escaping everything he has left behind. He is not. Time is the cell he is locked in, while he is forced to watch everything move on around him, and it is where he will stay hunkered down to wait out his inevitable fate. He does not know what his sentence will be, but he can be sure that it will be no good.  

 

Maybe John will hang after all. Maybe he has _already swung_ . Maybe he is still swinging now, and he had already passed through purgatory when he left Arthur’s warm body behind and struck out in the cold rain, just before the dawn. He thinks of that gauzy, wet field his horse had passed through under cover of dark, and he thinks that maybe where he is now is actually the really _real_ hell. John rides, and he rides and he rides and he rides, and he thinks that doesn’t get anywhere at all.  

 

~

 

 

Some stretches of time are simpler than others. John lies under the stars many a night, with his ankles crossed, spinning his pistol around his finger and taking the occasional pointless shot at the beatific face of the moon. He thinks that maybe Jack is _not_ his son, and that Abigail has spread her legs enough times in the past to at least merit the seed of a single doubt. Jack seems so small and alien anyway, like he is barely a person at all. John thinks the baby is less understandable to him than a horse, or even than a stupid, gamboling puppy. John does not want to be a father. He does not even remember being a child himself, even though he recalls he _must_ have been, because he remembers the shapes of Dutch’s gang growing slowly smaller as he himself grew tall. This seems because when he was actually a child, Arthur and Dutch had always insisted he do the work of a man. But he wonders also if it is only his ego that prevents him now from recalling that long ago, fragile time. He supposes it is entirely possible.

 

John thinks about Abigail looking at him frostily back at the camp, as if she expects him somehow to be even more grown up than he already is. Some days, it feels like he has done her some all-consuming wrong, and John cannot figure for the life of him what he has done to merit so much of her consuming ire. He has supposedly put a baby in her, yes, but he didn’t _ask_ her to grab his hardness through his jeans, and now there are only consequences to contend with when John had only ever been trying to prove a foolish, stupid point. John is not sure, even now, if that point was supposed to be to Arthur or to Abigail; it tends to change constantly even as he thinks on it, and in the end he wonders if it wasn’t only just a point he was trying to make to himself. A point that states emphatically, that he is _a man._ But John knows; he has never been a man.  

 

These days just behind him, John thinks that Abigail seems trapped all the time. The cold look in her eye is perpetually haunted, as if John alone holds the key to her cage. But the problem has always been that John is an idiot, and that he cannot work a lock. John does not think he has the keys to _any_ cage, literal or figurative. He does not have any answers, though what he does have is a bushel full of questions. He wonders about what Arthur must think of all of this, about Abigail, and about John himself, though he knows between them they have never been very good at talking.

 

John wonders perpetually at what Arthur must write in that secret journal of his, and he wonders, particularly now, if there is perhaps a brand new entry which details the spontaneous nature of John’s exit from the camp. Maybe Arthur has not written anything about that night, but only drawn their horses, laden heavily for travel, and that maybe this is actually for the best. Maybe Arthur has only written that John has died, and commemorated his spontaneous passing with his initial and a tiny crucifix at the bottom of his page. When it starts to drizzle after a while, John sticks the tip of his pistol in his mouth, then chews on it slow and lazy as a cow. Then he thinks the worst thought of all of them; what if Arthur has simply written... _nothing_?

 

John groans around the barrel, which lies heavy and metallic against his tongue, and after a while he pulls the gun out of his mouth again and rolls over in his blanket, just as the rain picks up afresh. His horse whinnies in disapproval and John pushes his face into the dirt, and then he listens to the thunder rumble in the distance. He will sleep soaked again tonight, but then John suspects this is _exactly_ what he deserves.

  


~

  
  


 

John is gone two months when he rides into the next town. He does not know what it is, or where it is, or how it is, and he finds he does not care. He only wants to eat a meal that isn’t falcon or gopher, and he thinks at last he’ll buy another tent.

 

The townsfolk all regard him with a suspicious side-eye until Marston finally pays 25 cents for a bath. He pays the maid an extra dollar to clean his rifle for him in the bathtub, and her hand feels so good when he closes his eyes that it’s almost like Abigail’s own practiced touch. But when he tells her to do it harder and he thinks of Arthur’s callused hand instead, he is spilling himself in seconds and then sending her away again, with an angry bark and a rough shove of his fist.

 

The town has a post office that is also a bar, and John wastes the rest of his evening drinking and talking to some ignorant pigfucker who was probably born in a barn. Halfway through a bottle of corn whiskey John begins to feel hopeless, not that he has not been hopeless before, but it is the special kind that comes from being far from home and knowing that not a soul knows a single one of his cares or worries. “You ever fuck a _man?_ ” John asks the pigfucker very directly, who laughs his stupid laugh like John has said just about the funniest joke a feller has ever been told. “ _Whew_!” He squeals, “That sure is a good one, mister! _Nosiree,_ but I got a cousin who fucked a _chicken_ once! They only got one hole!”  John thinks it must run in the family.   

 

Eventually, after enough whiskey, everybody begins to look like Abigail or Arthur from behind. John loses track of the pigfucker, but he gains instead the company of an equally drunk and traveling reverend. John is staring at the blurring backs of passerbyers and thinking despondently of home when the man asks him what is on his mind. “You think a man could marry a man _and_ a woman, reverend?” John asks, and his new fat friend shakes his head and misses his glass when he attempts to pour himself another shot. “ _One_ woman, with _two_ husbands? _Certainly not_ . Itsan abomib- Abomidable- _Abdomin-_ ” He slams the bottle down, “it is an _abomination,_ good sir.”

 

“That ain’t what I _said_ !” John insists, leaning harder on the table, and sticks his hand in front of the reverend’s face. “Said a man with a _wife_ !” he sticks up one finger, “And a man with a _husband_ !” He sticks up the second, “All three, _together._ ” When the reverend tells John he suggests he go to church and purge his sinful thoughts in confession, John thinks he liked the pigfucker better.

  


John vomits in an alley and then he dunks his head in a freezing water trough out by the hitching post, and he doesn’t even try to stop it when a prostitute tries to take him to her room to rob him blind. The joke is on her when she finds out he has no more money, but what she does have is a bed, and so John goes to sleep in it like a boulder and cannot be moved again until the sun has risen. He wakes to an angry woman and an unprecedented hangover, and to the feeling he had been dreaming of Arthur; but the dream must have been an Arthur from when John was still small, because dream Arthur had seemed _so big_ , very surely like a mountain John would never be able to climb. He vomits again in the wash basin, and then he goes out into the street to shout for his missing horse. After a fruitless hunt it seems his missing horse has actually been stolen, and this is the head-splitting moment that John decides;

 

it is time to find a job.

 

 

~

  
  


 

John is gone four months, riding a stolen cart horse through the mornings and straight on into the east and the face of the rising sun, when he finally comes upon the distant silhouette of the little town of New Aberdeen. He is penniless, except for a goodly stack of pelts he has collected in his lonely journey, and when he stands with a traveling trapper just outside of town and shows him samples of his wares, a feller with a big valley hat and a long feather in it stops to look over his shoulder. He is impressed by John’s marksmanship, and by the flawless condition of his skins, and so he invites John to come with him to the saloon for a drink with his posse of other wandering hunters. John agrees, but only on the condition that he is fed and watered at no extra charge, and his demand is met for once with affirmation.

 

The feller’s name is Silas Dowd, hailed yonder from southeast over in Roanoke Ridge. He cannot return home again, maybe ever, on account of a feud about a beautiful bride who went and got herself shot on accident, amidst a hail of bullets from somebody else’s misunderstanding. Dowd is certainly no special type of orator, Dutch would laugh at him and eat him on toast with his beans for breakfast, but he has accumulated a small group of men to travel with him based on his personality alone, and they do jobs together both legally _and_ beneath the bar of the law. This is exactly what John needs, and he finds he genuinely does not care that none of them can read. They are simple folk, and John likes that, having always _preferred_ things that are straightforward, so that they might outright be easily understood, and therefore any trouble can be neatly avoided. It feels familiar, and they are no challenge at all to John’s ego, even as degraded as it currently is.They also share the common thread of hating Colm O’Driscoll with a passion, whose boys apparently have spread their pox, even here, to touch a variety of regular folk with their bloody seeds of discontent.

 

When Silas asks John how he knows Colm, John only lights a cigarette and lies; he says Colm O’Driscoll killed his mother. Annabelle was certainly never that, she had never cared for John in the way a parent does; _Arthur_ had always taken care of him, and Hosea too, and Dutch... _Of course_ Dutch was the permanent shape of an ever-judging father. But the gang trusts John immediately when he fibs to them about this, which suits him very nicely, because once he has joined their group they give him a Warmblood mare and a big fat sack of oats, and the promise of a job that will pay them each $300 apiece. It turns out the job _does_ pay what Silas says, when they strike out together a few nights later for a bit of secretive cattle rustling under cover of dark, and after what feels like a very, _very_ long time, John finally buys himself the one thing that he has really been wanting; a brand new blue canvas tent.   

 

~

  
  


 

The Dowd boys, it turns out, are not good at much of anything. For John, who has been gone six months by now, this is both a comfort and a blessing. To them, John is a gunslinger supreme, unbeatable and rugged as the landscape, strong and smart and grizzled as an old folk hero. John legitimately does not feel like an actual fool for a goodly while, like otherwise he has _always_ felt, and he spends long evenings showing off his shooting skills to his captive audience by blowing glass bottles off of different people’s heads. One afternoon, when he shoots three birds out of the sky with one bullet, they all laude him as a western deity on the spot, and John feels so depressed by this declaration that he insists they all go out drinking at once.They end up in a brothel, in a settlement called Greenwood, despite the fact that it is brown and dusty and not at all a little woodsy, or even a little bit green.

 

John is clean enough. Plus, he is not so drunk as he has recently been. The brothel is tidy and the liquor is strong and even if he didn’t pay his way, he is sure one of these bawdy women would give him her favor, regardless. But he _does_ pay, because that is what a _real_ man would do, and he can afford it, especially after a few of their recent smaller thefts and escort missions have not gone entirely astray. He chooses a woman with sandy brown hair and large, heavy breasts because he is not sure he could stomach anyone who looks even a little like Abigail, and they go upstairs to the rowdy cheering of Silas Dowd and his entourage of good-natured, but incessantly stupid idiots.  

  
  


The year John had decided it was his purpose on this earth to fuck every woman living, it was mostly because Arthur would not have him. For a while, John had certainly attempted to live up to the tenets of this plan. He had been thirsty, and young, and very desperate to prove something, but even then he still knew vaguely that he was chasing a dream. Sex does not mean too much to John Marston anymore, not the particular _specificity_ of any one encounter, other than the scorching ones with Arthur, and unfortunately for Abigail he has _never_ held much stock in the concept of the sanctity of marriage.

 

 John is still hungry for sex now, wanting some simple method of expelling his frustrations and his pain that does not require him interpreting anything fancy in a book, like Dutch or Hosea would always have him do. But nowadays, sex no longer holds the same kind of release that it once did, back before everything had changed. John does not think that he is a good father, and that he has definitely neglected his duties to Abigail in the past, even when they had still been friendly; they are not really married, after all. Not really. Not under God, not _proper_ , like decent folk ought to be. But they have struck a bargain, and only Arthur The Saint would continuously cling to such an honorable ideal as marriage, to insist in it’s purity, in the very _rightness_ of the thing. The problem is that John thinks that Arthur’s physical touch has permanently altered him, and when he spins the big-breasted woman around and begins to unlace her dress, John also thinks he cannot understand anymore exactly what it is that has happened. He wonders if being with Arthur has only assured that nothing will ever again be the same.

John just likes the _feeling_ , he thinks stupidly as he unlaces the woman’s strings. It is as simple as that, the sensation of arousal plain enough to understand. John has even found his dick gets hard for reasons it sometimes shouldn’t. His dick gets hard when he feels a man’s bone break under his fist, and his dick gets hard when he gets proven right about an argument. He gets a little hard when he smells fresh coffee, and when he looks at a hot cauldron of soapy laundry, and he gets hard when he is too tired, during that first exhausted moment after he has lain down. If there is a hole for him, John is at the ready, and he has made no excuses for the exploration of any holes of his own. Like eating or sleeping, spilling himself is a high priority, if regular maintenance that must be performed for the service of the whole. But it is not _important,_ like friendship, or like loyalty. Perhaps, without Arthur, it never will be again.

  


John palms the woman’s heavy breasts, breathing hard through his nose, as he tries to focus in. They are pretty, and dusted with freckles. He tries to focus on her, and not what he longs to truly dwell on. It is only that Arthur has _always been_ there, in John’s earliest memories. But the memories are somehow still disguised in sheep’s clothing, as if John keeps trying to corral them separately, as if attempting to keep them apart from touching all the rest, and therefore ruining the whole. It is only that he is not smart enough to accomplish this herculean effort, and so there is Arthur anyway, pressing his first revolver into John’s hand. And there is Arthur giving him a book, and there is Arthur dragging him up from the water by the sopping neck of his shirt. Ever solid and ever present, Arthur has always been like an unshakeable mountain that cannot be rebuked. There is Arthur teaching John how to sit a rearing horse, and there is Arthur teaching him where to strike a deer’s chest with a knife for the cleanest kill, and the blood is running hot over his knuckles as he listens to the screams of the dying beast, and there is Arthur naked and bronzed in the sun while he washes his clothes in the river, and that is where John’s imaginings truly begin to grow dark.

 

He does not want to think of this, but he cannot help it. He rips the woman’s dress clean off, until it is pooled around her ankles and she is looking up at him with a twinkle of genuine heat in her stare. He roughly shoves her over on the bed and begins working at the buttons on his pants, and then she is smiling savagely at him over one of her naked shoulders. He makes quick work of himself, and gets down to business.

 

There is the memory of the wet sound of Arthur’s passion, and there is the shape of his mouth when he turns his face towards the ground when lost in thought. And there is Arthur on his knees in the forest, and his tongue is hot, so hot that John is sure he will burn in hell for all of it.

 

Some days, all John wants is for Arthur to tell him that he is good, that he has done _just fine_ , in that way about him which makes all the world seem somehow _reasonable_ after all. John wants Arthur to say that everything is well in hand, but most days John feels that _nothing_ is in hand, and that Arthur actually thinks in secret that John is a stupid failure. When he leans over to twist the oil lamp key back and plunge the room into darkness, John wonders, not for the first or last time, at why Arthur had even fucked him at all.

 

The woman is hot beneath him. John likes the heat. He is a warm weather beast if he is anything, because _surely_ , he has never been a man. He walks like a man and talks like a man and he eats and drinks and fucks like a man, but he is something else entirely, and that is the only truth he is sure he really knows. He thinks only that Arthur is the real man between the two of them, Arthur the teacher, Arthur the priest, and John pushes into the warm flesh beneath him with no preparation and no warning. Fortunately, the woman is a consummate professional, and therefore she has already prepared the way. Realizing this only offers John a small, guilty pang, because he knows that if she wasn’t ready that he would have taken her anyway, and that to him it is all very much the same. He rolls into her and she makes a very pretty, but very fake noise in his ear, and John loses himself entirely inside the dark of his doubts.

  


Surely, Arthur could not have taken John only for pity’s sake. Not once, but _twice_ . _Surely_ . Arthur is good, but no man on Earth is _that good_ altogether. But then, John again is not so sure Arthur isn’t a saint, when he thinks of Arthur saying that everything is over in half as many words, and that they cannot continue any further with their secret... because of _honor_ , and because of _nature_ , and because of other stupid reasons only a godless priest like Arthur Morgan would find honestly legitimate. Had John really overstepped his brotherly boundaries, like Arthur had once claimed they had? John has no head for these things. He is simple in his approach to life, because he likes it best when things are honest and easy to understand. But then there is the memory of Arthur’s hand on his face, and of the sound of private fondness in his voice, _boy, shoulda drowned you years ago_ , and then John thinks he must be the most wretched, no brains, piece of shit stupid idiot that has ever walked the earth. He does not know what Arthur’s intentions have ever been, except only that he is sure Arthur yearns to work towards the good of others, but when a man is such a sunlit paragon, what shape does that make his shadow?

 

John fucks the prostitute slow, if only because he is trying to teach himself a lesson. He tortures himself with it, with memories of how with Arthur he has always moved too fast, taken what he wanted and apologized for nothing, and he doesn’t even think of her passion even when she gives a genuine moan. He only thinks of himself, and all the ways he should have stretched his time with Arthur out. He has always been a fool, and a coward and a scoundrel, and a real man would not do any number of the things he has done in his life. But John is not sorry for letting Arthur fuck him, because he does not believe hell is any place other than here, and when he rolls the woman over on her stomach and uses her slick to enter in the back way, he thinks there are too many things he is regretful for to even count them all. In the dark it is easy to pretend she is someone else, and she grunts in discomfort and threads her fingers in the sheets, but John is lost in his mortification to an unknown and unseen God, counting his sins with his thrusts as if dropping each apology into a coffer for forgiveness.  

 

There is Arthur affectionately cuffing the side of John’s head, and there is Arthur’s thoughtful gaze as he looks at John over the top of his journal with a pencil in his hand. There is Arthur lassoing a wild horse and bringing it to heel with his calm voice and his gentle hands and his strong back, and there is the way he sits and listens quietly to Dutch speaking in the evenings, like he’s on his knees at some sacred altar. Arthur has always been too good a man. He has always been ever the fucking martyr, the grownup, the father, the hero, and John thinks he is a fool for it, before John remembers with a start that it is only himself who is really the fool. John wants to climb inside of him, and he wants _never_ to think of Arthur Morgan again, not ever again, _not ever_ , and then it is suddenly and acutely all too much for him to bear.

 

When it is all over, and John is spent, the woman turns the light back up and goes to sit at the hewn wooden vanity to scrape John’s seed out of her as best she can. Then, she brushes her hair and only half looks at him through the mirror while he lies in the bed, one fist on his forehead as he stares too intensely at the ceiling. “Penny for yer thoughts?” She prompts, not unkindly, though still with half a salty smirk.

 

“You think a man can be forgiven?” John rasps, though he doesn’t mean it in a biblical way.

 

The prostitute shakes her head with a knowing smile. “People don’t forget. _Nothing_ gets forgiven. That’s the world we live in, darlin, and ain’t nothin’ gonna change about it. Sooner you’re square with that fact, the better.”

 

John frowns at the ceiling, his face full of deathly import even when he doesn’t know it, and the words settle in deep, then deeper, into the crevices of his very bones. He lies right there, until the woman shoos him out again, and then she calmly resumes collecting more clients for the evening.   

  


~

  


 

John is gone nine months, and it is October when Silas Dowd’s boys head west by sixty-five miles. Or, what is left of them head west anyway, since half the gang has been shot dead in the street over an unfortunate bet about a racing pig. The bet was with a filthy, cheating Irishman, who was not personally an O’Driscoll himself, but who knew plenty of their kind all the same. John had shot him dead right between the eyes mostly for his mouthy obstinance, but when Colm’s boys rode up in a thundering hoard to collect illegal payment for their pig-racing racketeering from the now obviously beleaguered Dowd, John thinks that it must have all been a trap from the very beginning. He is afraid he will be recognized as a son of Dutch, and he pulls his hat down low over his forehead,  but Dowd is already calling for the horses to turn around, and John kicks his mare into the tailspin.

 

John thinks every day, that there must be hundreds upon hundreds of O’Driscolls in the world;  that if you laid their corpses out, all of them head-to-toe, that the line of their bodies would stretch fully around the whole width of the earth, maybe even twice. It is hard to say precisely, mostly because John is no good at all with math, but also because there is such an awful lot of them that it seems like there must be no end in sight. If only Dutch would put a bullet in Colm O’Driscoll’s head, and make up his own conclusion for all of it!

 

They run. John is used to running by now, with this gang, and from himself. They have little other choice. These men are not _real_ gunslingers, they are only trappers, and hunters, and convicted poachers. They are made of such stuff that alone all would fare ill, but together, some might still survive. John thinks, he knows very well how to run, and that is what is best. By now he is very, _very_ good at running, and for a while as they ride he feels quietly ashamed because of this.

 

A handful of O’Driscolls catch up to them as they prepare to cross the border over into the wilds of the craigy Dakotas, and there is a shoot-out in a rocky gorge dangerous enough that John’s hat gets blown clear off his head. He spits in the wind and dual-wields his double-action revolvers to surgically remove the remainder of the threat, because now he is not afraid anymore, _he is_ _only angry_ , and when it is over he catches sight of two lonely O’Driscolls hightailing it over the hills on a blood-spattered dapple grey, out of range again and fast as a bat out of hell. He is sure he will hear tell of this in the future.   

 

Silas has been shot in the shoulder at the socket, and it is only a matter of days before the wound begins to fester. He is burnt up by a fever they try to bake out of him by wrapping him in pelts and planting him by the fire, but it is fall again and nothing stays as warm as it should, especially not at night. He dies within the week, and they bury him in the rocky earth, and pile even more rocks on top of him to mark the place where he rests. He has nothing to steal, and even if the natives dig him up again they will surely leave his useless corpse exactly where it is, because it has nothing, and because Silas was nothing. John sets Dowd’s hat on top of his grave and turns to the sight of Dowd’s boys watching him, and he realizes with a sudden cold rush that they have just now, suddenly become-- _his_ gang.  

  


~

  
  


 

John is gone ten months when he thinks for the first time that he is not cut out for leadership. He can organize a raid well enough, send Osmond and Denny to flank the left, and Walter and Otis and Bart up to the right, then push in together to close around a homestead, but it turns out that John has complete _shit for brains_ when it comes to organizing the gang as a whole.

 

John quickly finds that he _always_ takes the wrong advice, and ignores it when someone tells him something right. He says _stay_ when they should _move_ , and moves them when surely, they might still safely stay. He has no vivacity as a leader to speak of, and the men slowly begin to peel off, one by one at first, until one day there is only a handful left, and this is when John understands for the first time exactly the kind of magic Dutch and Hosea and Arthur have always possessed. He knew _of_ it, but he had not _known_ it. He had looked at it, but he had never _seen it_. Now, he feels a little like he is finally beginning to really and truly understand.

 

Dutch is a consummate speaker, a leader that breeds in his gang a desire to follow him to the ends of the earth. He could convince a demon to give him a guided tour of hell, then allow him back out again when it was finished. John cannot speak like him, because he will never have his charisma.

 

Hosea is obscenely clever, and he is always following up from behind. When Dutch dreams it, Hosea is the one that breaks it down and makes it real, and he is always triple and quadruple checking the fidelity of the plan. John cannot act like him, because he will never have his wits.

 

And then, comes Arthur. What is there for John to learn from him that he has not dwelled on already a hundred nights before? But kindness is a lesson that is continuously living, and John knows the sort of empathy Arthur has is not the kind usually possessed by any normal living man. John cannot think like him, because he will never have his heart.  

 

John sits by the fire with what remains of the Dowds, and he worries that they have come too far west. He does not want to run the risk of crossing paths with the Van Der Linde Gang, and their last known whereabouts was still a fair few miles away, but it is still not nearly far enough for John’s particular comfort. He is embarrassed that he has fallen so far, and that he has made such a mess out of the lives of even these few simple folk, and for the first time in a long, long while, he grows weary for the sensation of resting his head in Abigail’s soft lap. He wonders distantly, if she might still welcome him home if he returned. He wonders, if anyone would.

 

~

  


 

It is especially under cover of dark when John allows himself to believe that he has finally become a complete and total failure. He doesn’t think much of the Dowd camp, which is pathetic at best, and has nestled again in the much loathed foothills of the Grizzlies after being pushed even farther west by bounty hunters set on collecting easy pay. John hates this landscape, because it is full of old memories. He thinks even less of this lifestyle, and though he is not starving or freezing anymore, there is still very little else to love, or even to like. There are no women with their party, John is nearly sure a handful of his men are rapists anyway, and not a one among them can scrape together the words to read a sentence in a book. John is tired of feeling _smart_ , as contradictory as that seems, and he admits to himself he cannot tolerate the pressure of being responsible again for people he feels resentful towards.

 

John thinks of Arthur on these nights, of how in the evenings back at Dutch’s camp, Arthur would always pull himself up into the saddle for a ride whenever he looked especially discontent. Nowadays for John, on nights that are bad, he purposefully copies Arthur in this habit. He wants them to be the same, he has _always_ wanted to be like Arthur, and he imitates his physicality as best he can, even when it hurts to do it. John mounts up too, he is _frowning_ too, he is _thinking_ too, and he takes his mare out to gallop a while beneath the silvery stars.

 

There is something numbing, and distinctly peaceful about riding just for the sake of it, and after a little while something wakes up, ancient and familiar, in the steady rhythm of John’s working muscles. He recalls in a rush, less with his head and more with his body, the memory of riding fast with Arthur in their early years, hot as a blaze of fire across the horizon and on into the golden arc of dawn.  

 

John loves Arthur Morgan, though thinking of him just one way is entirely too stupid an approach, even for a tested idiot like Marston. Arthur is not just _father, brother, friend_ , he is also _lover, teacher, master_. But he is also sometimes melancholy and tight-lipped like a woman, and other times he is too comfortable telling John exactly what his problem is, like a rival, and when John thinks of him, often enough he finds his mind gets too tangled to separate any of it. He only knows that he pines after and misses the shape of him, even though as an adult, John should have long ago shed such childish and preposterous attachments.   

 

There is usually no blazing orange dawn yet lit by the time John trots back into his pathetic little camp, his horse properly frothed with sweat, and the stink of his efforts and the chill of the night rising hot off of John’s skin in an odiferous steam. No dawn since John has left home has ever been quite as beautiful as the ones he recalls racing with Arthur, but it is still a small kindness to remember that once, a seemingly endless stretch of time ago, they _had been_.  

  


~

  
  


 

Maybe John does not try too hard to stop it when the Dowd gang presses for them to go further south and return a while to civilization, and John is gone eleven and a half months when the ominously familiar, yet unfamiliar sight of Blackwater once again unfurls on the horizon, right in front of his eyes.

 

The spit of a town has grown in leaps in bounds over the last two years, and now industry touches every facade, every new construction, and every single civilian. Cobblestones line the street now, and on the river with the firm ground-soil, a strong sailing dock has finally been built, and John wonders at the boats he sees gliding easily up and down the black, deep corridor of the water.

 

John finds he cannot look too long at the sight of the shore near the reeds, where fathers and sons now stand in heavy coats to fish, but John finds he can look at the saloon just fine, even when the owner recognizes him immediately, and threatens to put a bullet through John’s left eye if he as much as puts a single toe out of line. His reputation precedes him in a way that deeply impresses his ragtag little gang, even though John thinks he was only thrown through the stupid window once ( _or twice? Which was it again?_ ) The boys pour whiskey down his gullet and they celebrate the rare company of women, until John is sloppy drunk and he does not think so sickly and sadly of Arthur anymore, or about the perfect summer day they spent fishing together over on the shore of the Blackwater river.

  


It is evening before he knows it, lost as he has been in song and in his cups, and John is well and truly drunk when he hears the first signs of a real clamor out on the cobblestone street. At first, the yelling is dim in comparison to the jolly hammer of the piano, but then gunshots sound off, and he is looking up with watery eyes at several pairs of boots as they hightail it past the double swinging doors. But it is only when he hears a grunt, and then a yell, so familiar he feels it at the roots of his hair, that John grows afraid he will no longer be able to continue to behave himself. He jerks to his feet, and his men follow suit without needing a reason why.

 

It’s those bastards the O’Driscolls again, exactly who John had thought. But furthermore, they have a woman in hand out by the general store, a woman John knows all too well, and he sees even in the dark that it is Karen who struggles against the chest of a frisky Irishman whose attention she apparently detests.

 

“ _Goddamn O’Driscolls, bastards killed my brother!_ ” One of John’s stupidest lieutenants shouts, too loud and far too dumb, and it immediately draws every gun’s attention on the block. Before John knows it, the street has erupted into a chaotic barrage of bullets. He flings himself behind a support beam and reaches for his guns, and he thinks after this stunt that surely, he will _never_ be welcome in Blackwater again. He thinks he hears Karen shout a word sort of like his name, though he is not entirely sure, but he is _very_ sure about it when he hears her garbled gasp for help a minute later. Automatically, John throws himself over the railing and dives behind a cart, and then he is hightailing it through the alley down which he thinks Karen has been dragged. He fires off several consecutive shots, flooring the O’Driscolls in his way as he sees a flash of the blonde of Karen’s hair, and he levels his Shofield for a headshot on the man with his arm wrapped around her neck, before somebody is barreling into Karen and the O’Driscoll together and all three hit the ground with a thud.

 

Karen immediately weasels out of the way, slick and slippery as butter like always, but then she turns around and is kicking the O’Driscoll with the pointy end of her boot, and the broad-shouldered tackler grabs hold of the Irishman’s neck and gives it a savage twist until John can hear it crack.  

 

John knows the shape of these shoulders. He would know this back in his sleep. He would know it by touch alone in darkness, because he has chased it most of his natural life. Still, he refuses to acknowledge what is there, and instead he aims a little higher and bullseyes the brain of an O’Driscoll who suddenly rushes in from the right, and the blood from a shot fired at such close range splatters up, and then down again in a dramatic arc.  

  


Arthur Morgan turns around from his crouch over the corpses when the second O’Driscoll falls down dead, and the blood runs down the side of his face in rivulets. It is not Arthur’s blood, but John thinks his eyes have gone cold in the year they have been apart, and so the red on him gives him the feral look of an animal driven nearly to insanity. John lowers his revolver, and Karen shouts “Oh, _Johnny, I can’t believe it_!” with glee, but then she says nothing more and stands very still when Arthur’s whole body goes stiff, and then they are all three of them staring at each other with nothing at all to say.      

 

Gunfire continues on, unheeded behind them in the street, when John lets his revolver fall limply to his side and Arthur slowly stands. John finds he cannot move his legs, that there are no apologies or accusations on his tongue me might use to turn this situation to his advantage, and so he stays dormant as a stump when Arthur plods across the dirt and stops up short in front of his face.

 

There are a hundred million poison-tipped arrows in Arthur’s eyes. John feels cowed as a child, like he hasn’t felt in years, but he forces himself to stand up tall, straighter, prouder, to try to face Arthur as bravely as a _real man surely_ would. He wonders what he must look like, drunk until his face is red, and spattered in mud as he is, and dusted with various grisly bits of O’Driscoll skull all over his lapel. Surely, even filthy, John cannot possibly look _all that_ bad.  

  


Arthur wordlessly cocks his fist back and punches John hard in the face, and that is when the whole world goes instantly black.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well! Here you are, ladies and gentlemen, the chapter where POV John is extremely sad and extremely horny on main. We will return to the more civilized and sensitive Arthur POV next chapter, but it will backtrack a little, picking up shortly after we left him at the end of chapter 4. These sad cowboys, I swear to dog. I also swear I'm trying to be nice to Abigail in my writing, but it is difficult because for John to show any ~real~ character growth I really had to hammer home what a muddy little shitlord he is in his young twenties, and believe you me, there was an earlier draft where he was even worse. This iteration makes the most sense to me, since we canonically have no actual knowledge of what John gets up to in this missing year. I'm basically assuming according to context clues that he spends this year fucking around and failing at stuff like a real dickhead, since he does actually come crawling back a year later. Now, there's only the Blackwater catastrophe for him to somehow really fuck up before Arthur starts seriously thinking about beheading him for real. This whole story is going to end around Colter and then have an epilogue, so thanks to everybody who has stuck with me so far! We're closing in on the home stretch, friends.


	6. Chapter 6

 

**JOHN IS GONE, part 2**

 

**5 months previous**

  
  
  


 

 

John is gone. After a while, Arthur loses track of why, or for how long. He only cares that it is long enough to watch the seasons change, and to watch the bucks go through their antler molt, until Arthur can pick up the fuzzy bits off the dried-up ground. It is long enough for Arthur to have helped Tilly source the materials to weave a whole new stack of blankets, and it is long enough to repair, then fortify all their lean-to’s, proofing it all for colder weather. Arthur has killed several small brown bears for Pearson to craft into cloaks, and he has spent several nights in Dutch’s tent discussing philosophy, while Molly O’Shea sits in the corner giving them both a bitter look. Arthur has counted four rainbows, and six times the sun has shone while it rained, and he has counted fifteen times he has seen a mighty buffalo shot dead by settlers, only for the sake of cutting out its tongue and stripping off the pelt. Arthur has gone with Charles five times to parlay with groups of different natives, three times of which were actually successful, and he has dug fifteen graves for strangers whose names he never knew. They have gone robbing only twice, since they are still in the wilds, and their take is only from travelers who on a surface level come off as nasty people. One was a slaver, all his men set free upon his death, and the other beat his animals. Arthur shoots him clean through the chest with no regrets, and suddenly the gang owns a rooster and six more horses than they used to.

 

Most days, Arthur is convinced he has everything well in hand, and that his back is the marble pillar upon which their tiny camp is built, side-aside with Dutch and Hosea and Miss Grimshaw, and even the sloppy, drunken Pearson. They are a strong united front that supports their little family, and Arthur pours everything about himself into the maintenance of camp.

 

Other days, Arthur looks at Abigail staring into nothing, or at the painful sight of glittering water, or someone will laugh with a raspiness that makes Arthur lift his head. He knows the truth, of course. He repeats it daily like the mantra of a priest so that the truth can live in every moment, but this does not stop Arthur from straining his ears to the sounds of camp at night, or hating the way a campfire will kiss yellow light beneath the jaws of other men. John is never coming back, Arthur repeats to himself, and he counts thirty kinds of flowers that he likes, and five varieties of parasol mushroom, and he writes none of it down in his journal.  

   

  


~

  


 

Abigail’s breath comes in a cloudy puff against Arthur’s arm one frozen morning, and for an entire moment the whole world grows completely still. Her hand is clutching his shoulder very tightly, and he lays a glove over it with the intention of comforting her as best he can, and then he leans down to inspect the set of tracks they have discovered.

 

Four deep claws frame thick oblong pads, four inches wide, maybe closer to five, and all the paw prints are weighed into the snow in a nearly straight line. This animal does not meander like a coyote, and it does not skip or bound like a dog; it moves with intention, _with a purpose_ , and for most of the hunt it is a creature that does not even run.

 

“A real _big_ bastard,” Hosea remarks with a note of admiration, if only because the situation is so unbelievable. A wolf has walked straight through their camp in the middle of the night, and not a soul was awake to see it pass.

 

Micah is hurling his opinions at Dutch over by the empty stew cauldron, suggesting loudly a fact that for once everybody has always known; that Uncle is a rotten lookout, and that even in these secluded lands they cannot afford for a moment to let their guard relax. It feels like poison to listen to Micah Bell hissing the truth, like somehow he has corrupted what is real with the twist of his devious tongue. But his words are all technically in a row, they are all _right_ , and Arthur can track the logic in them the same as he follows the prints in the snow. Uncle _is_ useless, but when Micah simpers and grovels at Dutch’s every word because he is so thrilled to have been recognized, Arthur finds he cannot stomach it.

 

Even a fool can see that Uncle is a waste of space. The man is half sandbag and half horse shit, and the only time he is of any real use is when the gang needs a decoy who can attract attention by getting kicked.  Even when it is decided that Micah should take over for Uncle in future, there is something unsteady about it all. Uncle is put on latrine duty, and Micah goes about his day looking like he has been awarded some prize cut of meat, but none of it feels like it has done any real lick of good. Danger still seems too close, and to Arthur it feels like their sound decisions these days are bereft of any value; that the succor of reason has gone a little out of everything. Perhaps it is only Arthur who feels this, and everything is just the same as before except that John is gone, or maybe it was John himself who has gone and done this to them, and that his absence has lain a curse upon the camp. Arthur and Hosea exchange a heavy glance, and then Arthur turns to look for Abigail.

 

Abigail has gone to stand in front of John’s tent, which she has moved fully into with the baby. Little Jack is sleeping in a woven basket lined with furs, and Abigail looks down with a haunted paleness; the clean line of wolf tracks have lead straight to the child. Arthur looks down too, and follows the way the wolf must have stopped a while right here to think, before the tracks take it onward past Arthur’s wagon, and around the palette where the other girls usually sleep. The wolf had not taken anything, it had only been curious, but it’s clean, uninterrupted trajectory around the camp contains the silent possibility of everything it _could have_ done. In Arthur’s chest, this catastrophic oversight scorches him beyond repair. This failure is overt.

 

“ _Never_ _again_ ,” Arthur grits, feeling guilty for sleeping while Jack laid in danger. It is more to himself than anyone else, even though he wraps an arm around Abigail’s shoulders and pulls her close. Abigail is not his wife, but their stories are tangled together in ways Arthur is too dumb to understand, and so he has given himself over to the purpose of her care, and therefore also to Jack’s. John has unforgivably given up this gift, the gift of a future not yet written, and in his absence Arthur will do the best he can to pretend to be the man for Abigail they both know will never return.

 

Abigail reaches up and turns her face into Arthur’s shoulder as she wraps her arms around his neck. In the moment, it is obvious she cannot face the horrific possibility little Jack has just barely escaped, and Arthur hugs her close to his chest. They have always lived on the edge of a knife, but all the time nowadays, it seems like the blade is growing sharper.

  


~

 

  


The camp packs up and moves north again, towards civilization, and for a while the curious wolf follows them. It is a mangly creature it turns out, and Arthur has an easy enough time of it spotting the animal with a scope. It is alone, just like they had originally thought, all gristle and yellow teeth and wild black patches of fur, and it lopes around their camp at night along the treeline. Arthur watches the beast trail them during his lookout shifts, moving like a shadow even blacker than the dark. It’s movements are angular and disjointed, as if the beast is sick, though Arthur only thinks it must have been crippled somehow, then cast out by it’s previous pack. He wonders why it didn’t eat the baby when it had the chance, and he fires off a warning shot near its feet to scare it back into the night.

 

Arthur knows that he should kill the wolf, that he should rip the fur from it’s flesh and present the pelt and carcass to Abigail as a boon for her all worries. But he finds he cannot bring himself to take the killing shot, even when the foolish creature sits down in the snow directly in his sights. It is enough that the wolf be kept out of camp, he thinks. As long as it stays away, that is all that really matters, and Arthur makes sure with all his attention that it never comes too far into his range.

 

Arthur thinks, as odd as it is, that perhaps Hosea would understand why he cannot directly kill the wolf, but he never voices this thought out loud. The wolf is too familiar to Arthur, and it lopes between the snow-dusted trunks of trees like a missing friend. Instead, Arthur only fingers the trigger and tries to focus in, but he always finds he cannot go through with it in the end. He is too weak to fight this idiotic metaphor, he thinks that this useless connection he has made between beast and man is illogical as it is unsafe, and he leans back from the scope with the familiar sting of failure in his throat every time he cannot take the definitive shot.

 

Other nights, when the lookout rifle is in someone else’s hands, when Arthur hears a bullet fired it comes as a sensation like he has been cracked across the chest. He wonders if the mangy wolf has finally been put down, if it is finally over for good, when Arthur knows very well that even if the wolf is killed that not much about their lives will actually change. It is only the anticipation of the kill that seems frightening, the question of not knowing, and Arthur finds himself secretly wishing the wolf has gotten clean away, despite its limited odds.

 

Arthur thinks Charles would not shoot the beast out of simple curiosity, and Lenny cannot see that far to make his mark, and Micah is all show and no substance with his flashy pistols that barely ever hit anything anyway, but perhaps Javier could hit it, or Bill, or surely Hosea could, and so the shot is a blunt shock, every single time.

When Arthur sees the beast again on his next watch, just as sinister as it was before, Arthur is privately a little relieved. It is a foolish game he is playing, one Arthur knows is dangerous even as he does it, but when the wolf comes and sits out in the brush to quietly watch the camp at night, it feels just a little comforting, and least of all the wolf is the kind of company that does not require Arthur to talk back. Arthur likes that. Arthur looks at the wolf, and he thinks that maybe, _just maybe,_ not quite everything inside of him has died. But then it is someone else’s watch and he hears the rifle fire off again in the dark, and again he is not so sure.

  


 

~

 

 

John has been gone for nine months.

 

John has not been gone for nine months. He has been gone for a hundred years.

 

John has been gone so long that it’s like he was never here, but it is the opposite too. John is here, and he is everywhere, he walks unseen around the camp just behind Arthur’s shoulder, and John is nowhere as if he had never even been born.

 

Arthur has nightmares about the wolf dying. He has nightmares that John has been ripped apart by bandits, or by wild animals, or by natives. He fears that John’s scalp has been peeled back and that his corpse is bloated and rotting while vultures circle above him, left alone to decompose where no man can find his corpse. Arthur is afraid of the slow procession of time, of worms and maggots eating John’s flesh away from inside the cage of his ribs, while Arthur merely sits on his hands and waits and he does not know what has happened. He thinks again of the day they rescued John from the noose, when John had been so very living, a kicking and spitting font of vital passion, and how quickly the rope could have snapped his neck and saved them all from any of this trouble. Arthur wonders, if that still might have been the better thing for everyone.

 

If John has died, then where has his soul gone? Arthur has always been afraid that at the end of life, only darkness waits. That there is nothing when the last breath has been breathed out.  He cannot bear the idea that John is gone in body as well as in soul, and most nights he fears that a soul is as mortal as a deer or a sheep or a pig. This particular thought is frightening enough that Arthur wakes up to it sometimes shortly after falling asleep, and he is unable to settle down again in his cot. He finds it nearly impossible to extinguish the memory of John when the boy has vanished without a trace. The mystery of it will always draw out a memory, until just the act of thinking about John is something undead. The question of John’s absence has made a ghost inside of him, and Arthur’s bitterness, and Arthur’s sorrow are his constant company when he parlays at night with the memory of his missing brother. The wolf still follows.

 

Arthur wants to know where John is, because he wants to finally be free to bury him in the ground if he really has died.  He wants to know where John is, because he wants to know the reason he has failed as a father, and as a brother, and as a friend. Arthur wants to know where John is to get him to admit that none of this is Arthur’s fault, that John has left not because Arthur keeps denying him, but only because he is a coward, and because he is a greasy fool. But Arthur does not know where John is other than the fact that he has gone east without his tent, and he makes no pretense about understanding why this has happened, even if he wants to believe it is John’s fault and not his own. He is so angry that John has left behind the opportunity to tend to the needs of his family, but he is angrier that John has left _him_ , left _their_ family, though he would never say it.

 

But Arthur does not know anything about any of it, least of all where John has really gone, and his eyes grow steadily accustomed to scanning the horizon, always finding _nothing_.

  


~

  


 

The scrawny wolf trails the camp caravan at a distance, until the ninth afternoon of travel. On that day, they pass out of the woods and are back out again into open range. The weather is clear, and the sky burns bright white in the afternoon.  Arthur watches the creature when it sits down in a puddle of blue shadows beneath the receding treeline, and it tilts it’s head in seeming thought as they trundle further into the valley. They lose the beast right there, like everything else seems to get eventually lost out in the wilds, and finally Abigail can sleep again at night. Even if Arthur can’t.  

  


~

  
  


 

Civilization is a blight. Arthur stays strong like he has vowed to do, he helps repair the wagons on their journey and he does his part plus more every time they build up camp, but he will never stop feeling nauseous when they return to a town after a particularly long stint in the wilderness.

 

People are the issue. People and their _questions_ , people and their _problems_ , and people and their _guns_. They have gone north again only with the purpose of finding a town, and though it is small, it serves its function well enough.  Dutch goes and buys a new coat, and a very royal looking hat, and the girls strike out as usual for leads, and for horny fools to wrangle for cash. Arthur wonders who he will need to save first, and finds as usual that it is Karen, who immediately gets too far in over her head with a man who smells like spoiled lizard meat. Arthur strong-arms her out of the inn and does something violent to the man that immediately afterward he palpably regrets. He pays the inn owner off to keep his silence and for the inconvenience of the mess, and it is for the benefit of all, since nobody wants to speak of what Arthur has done to the lizard man and everybody enjoys getting paid. Later, Arthur discovers from an elderly lady at the general store that the lizard man was a pestilence on the morality of the women in the town, and so Arthur feels just a little less bad about what has happened.

 

That week, Hosea speaks with the postman with the slick, clever way he has, his palm greased for information with a little cash. But like always, it is the Van Der Linde Gang’s quest for real wealth that guides him, and he finds that there is a main thoroughfare that leads through a grove nearby, where stagecoaches and government shipments regularly pass. There is more development in this area than ever before, and there is much need for additional funds and supplies. Tonight, a government shipment is set to run through full of California gold, and so it seems they have arrived at a very opportune moment indeed.

 

The gang is backtracking over land they have already traveled through, Arthur knows this, but Dutch assures everyone that nobody will be able to trace them, and they make camp close enough to town to be conspicuously inconspicuous. This is an attempt by Dutch to ingratiate himself with the local law, and he goes back into town in the evening with a very fine bottle of gin and enters the jail with a mind to make friends, announcing that they are traveling craftsmen. When Arthur leads the raid on the supply line that night, dressed all in black with his bandanna hiding his face, Dutch is already with the sheriff and getting him good and drunk. When his deputies fall over the threshold with news of the theft, Dutch is ready and waiting with a lead that takes them in the opposite direction, which the fools know no better than to take. The gang takes $5,000 that night, and they are gone well before the dawn. Later, when Dutch sits down next to Arthur at the fire under the first pink streaks of morning light, he lays a hand on his shoulder and brings rumors of nearby O’Driscolls, and then he tells Arthur that he has done very, very well.

 

Arthur does not feel as if he has done well. He feels no better than an O’Driscoll, like a coward and a sneak-thief, and like an honest-to-goodness crook. Micah had killed four men, which was three more than necessary, and Arthur had forced him to relinquish the idea that he should kidnap a woman. To what purpose he cannot say, though he can imagine it well enough. The money is very good, but there is no skill in this kind of job, no cleverness at all; it is just the brute force of shoving a gun past a man’s teeth, then threatening to pull the trigger. Not even wolves died so easily.

 

Maybe Arthur is not so sure he likes robbing anymore. Maybe he is lonely. Or maybe, pleasing Dutch means less than it used to, because Dutch seems not to care anymore if John is there or if John is not there. But Arthur cares, and he still wishes to do well, both by Dutch and by innocent people they find along the way. But Dutch is only interested in money these days, and Arthur has performed more than adequately, and so he receives his praise in penitent silence, and Micah stares poison daggers at him across the fire.

  


~

  


 

John has been gone nine and a half months. Every day is a mental tally mark, every hour has a meaning. But also no hour has any meaning, and all the tallies run together, and in the end it seems all very much the same.

 

Arthur thinks of the two shallow graves he has left behind on that long ago tiny homestead, and he thinks of the burning guilt he constantly feels for having let that fragile family down. He thinks of the day Dutch plucked John out from under the hangman’s noose and deposited him in Arthur’s life like a replacement child, and how for years afterward, Arthur could not stomach the thought of disappointing another son to the point of death. Arthur thinks, despite his growing affection for John, that there was nothing to conceal his eventual jealousy of and confusion by John’s adamant refusal of the gift of a family, of the very thing that Arthur himself would never have a chance at again. He wonders if loving John, or loving Abigail, has been the kind of mistake one might interpret as divine punishment for the death of that first family, all those years ago. Maybe it has always all made sense, in a grander scheme.

 

Hosea does not tell Arthur that he is too hard on himself, but sometimes he looks at him with worry, and with a truly despicable drop of pity. Dutch, however, only has disdain for displays of weakness, and so he is always sending Arthur off on some mission when he sees that Arthur has grown sad. In a way, this is exactly what Arthur wants, because physical tasks require his time and attention, and it is only when Arthur has worked himself into the ground that he finds he can finally fall asleep again. Sometimes he is so angry that he _still_ cannot sleep, even after all of it.

 

Arthur quickly discovers he shouldn’t think at all of the feel of John’s body hot beneath him, or the desperate way John yanked on his clothes and hair that last rainy night they spent in the wilderness. He is afraid of the strength of his want, and Arthur cannot brush against the memory of it, not even to touch himself to relieve the pain. Arthur lives abstinent again, because if he lets himself dwell on this sin then he knows it means he will fall apart completely, and Arthur has vowed to set aside these old weaknesses like one discards a mangled pair of boots. He sets John aside in his mind as best he can, because Arthur is needed by other people and Arthur is relied upon to get things done, but also, it is because there is no more room in Arthur’s life for any more sorrow than it already has, and there is the irreverent fact that tears are not permitted when you are a man. He tries his hardest, and it is _almost_ , nearly enough.

 

Days bleed into other days, camp moves and time moves and the sky moves, and Arthur works and smiles and works and works, and he asks his camp family how he can assist them with their personal errands and he does his best to solve their problems, and he works more and he smiles more, and he works and smiles and works and smiles and works and works and works and works, and all of it is just exactly the same.

  


~

 

  


“You look tired,” Abigail says to Arthur one day as he sits on his cot, half hunkered over on his knees and thinking thoughts that are rotting him from the inside. He looks up, still half-distracted, and gives her as earnest a smile as he can manage. “What’s that, _tired_ ? None such! Don’t you worry, Abigail, I’m just _fine_.”  

 

“Don’t look fine to me!” Abigail rebuts wryly, and she muscles him over on the cot and puts a knee on it to dig her thumbs into his shoulders. “You been burnin’ yourself up these last few weeks! Just hold still a minute, you big ox!”

 

Arthur groans as he concedes, and leans into the rare feeling of human touch like a tired horse; he lets her rub his shoulders while they listen to the quiet clatter of the camp. Most everyone is gone for the moment, except for Pearson and Lenny and Hosea, who are all audibly arguing by the cook fire about how to properly fillet a fish. Mary-Beth has fallen asleep on her palette, with her notebook on her chest.   

 

Behind his neck Abigail’s touch grows incrementally gentler, and Arthur goes contradictorily stiff under her hands when after a hesitant moment, they wrap around his neck and her mouth comes close to his ear. She carefully kisses Arthur’s jaw from behind, testing his reaction, and Arthur sighs like an old man and reaches up to touch her arm. He shakes his head once and he hears her pause, and then she swings around and sits next to him on the cot. His rebuke is obvious and unspoken, and he knows that it is in direct contradiction to the way he has been treating her as of late. Arthur finds he cannot look at her, for fear of the judgement he’ll find there; he only wants to protect her, but he cannot be her husband. He knew they were a bad fit together before, and now they would only hurt each other over the unseen presence in the room.

“You know, Arthur, I always…wondered,” She begins, and she is so careful, _so careful_ it’s like she’s afraid to break glass, but Arthur can already feel his insides cracking despite how delicately she is treating the lot of it. “about... John, _and you_ \--”

 

“ _Please Abigail,_ don’t ask.” Arthur quietly begs, and his hand goes up to slide across his tired face. _Dammit, Arthur, don’t make me say it,_ John pleads in the shadows of his mind, and Arthur thinks he is sick to death of secrets. But if Abigail asks him truthfully about the situation now, he thinks he can no longer live under the illusion that he is protecting her; that his behavior is somehow making up for doing her such inexcusable wrongs in his past. Perhaps she doesn’t know everything yet, but she shouldn’t _want to know_ everything.  

 

“I’ve seen all kinds,” Abigail smiles wisely, though she is also a little bit sad, and Arthur is glad she does not touch him again. “In my,   _previous_ line of work. All kinds. You know I’m a Christian woman now, Arthur, but I seen a _lot_ of this nasty world, and by no means am I some lily white virgin.”

 

“Ain’t nobody said that. In fact, most everybody already _heard_ it.” Arthur rebuts, then he sits up straight when his own rudeness strikes him. At first she looks taken aback, but then something patient washes over her again, and Arthur diverts his eyes again because he is embarrassed by how quickly that old hurt has bubbled back up.  “-- I’m sorry, Abigail, I didn’t-- mean nothin’ by that.”

 

“Oh, stop, Arthur Morgan, you couldn’t hurt my feelings even if you tried.”

 

“I ain’t _tried_.” Arthur responds wryly, and Abigail laughs and leans her head lightly on his shoulder. When she speaks again, her voice sounds wondering.

 

“You been good to me. Good to Jack. _Real_ good. Better for sure than that greasy bastard who run off missing all these months. I figured I owe you something.”

 

Arthur thinks that what he wants most from Abigail is her forgiveness, but he cannot bring himself to say the words. He cannot figure how Abigail and John _both_ keep telling him that they think they owe him _anything_ , and this dichotomy seems stupid enough to split his skull. Arthur thinks that he is the true, poisonous source of all their marriage woes, and that his sins have taken him far beyond the point of no return. He cannot ask for something so completely out of his reach, because it would require admitting all of his crimes to Abigail in detail, which Arthur is sure he could not tolerate. In the end, forgetting this fruitless pursuit of forgiveness seems best, because surely, he does not deserve any of it. “Sing me a song later, why don’t you?” he requests instead, with the twitch of a melancholy grin.

 

“It’s just, John’s been gone so long by now that I- I suppose that I--?” Abigail struggles with the words, and Arthur feels her conflict as keenly as if it were his own. He stares at the flat canvas wall of Dutch’s tent, at the shadows sliding across it, and tries to think of nothing. “--and _you’re_ ? Just so--? and-- Well. I suppose, Arthur, what I’m saying is, if there’s some _particular_ somethin’ that you _want_ ? You can just... _have_ it.”

 

He knows what she means. He knows that it is an open invitation, both to her bed and to anything else Arthur might request she be or do. But he does not want any of it, it feels too great a boon to gift too low a fool, and so he only cracks his grin a little wider and sits back on his cot again until he is looking around, refreshing himself from his reverie with sights of the rest of the world. “Honestly?” he laughs.

 

“Yes, you big dumb idiot, _honestly_!”

 

“It’s John I want.” He says, and for a moment his heart skitters around too flighty in his chest. He knows he grazes too close to the real truth, and he sees Abigail begin to go pale. But then he carries on with his point and she slowly eases down again, and there is a very small, and very guilty thrill of evil in his enjoyment over her pain. “If John comes back?” he continues, more penitent this time, “You let me punch him, right in the jaw. Might _break_ somethin’, mind you! Give me your word I’m allowed one good hit? Then, I figure we’re just about even after that.”

 

Abigail laughs once, and the clear relief in her voice hurts Arthur more than he thought it would. “Oh hell, Arthur, if you don’t do it first, then you know I would!”

 

“I’ve absolutely no doubt about that.” Arthur replies fondly, and Abigail regards him in turn with her own affection, then she touches his bristly cheek with her hand.

 

“You’re too good, you know,” she smiles, “It makes everybody else look bad.”

 

“No ma’am, I’m not.” Arthur breathes, and he removes her hand from his face. Nothing about her look suggests Abigail believes him even in the slightest, and she leaves him to his thoughts on the cot, and goes to take Jack out for an afternoon walk.

  


 

~

 

  
  


John is gone ten months.

 

John is gone ten years.

 

John is gone a hundred years.

 

John is everywhere and he is nowhere, and he is definitively, especially, _not here_.

 

John is missing in the morning when the sun should glint off the grease-slick clumps of his hair, and he is missing in the evening when the stew gets served out and the boys play five finger fillet, and there is a log with his name on it that nobody sits on to read a book, because it is so John-shaped, so very like something he would take a particular interest in, that it is always, always empty.

 

John is gone a thousand years.

 

John is gone a million years.

John is _still_

 

_just_

 

_gone._

  


~

  
  


 

“Is it not mankind’s _destiny_ to harness the assets of the wilderness? Whyfor did the Lord create beasts meant specifically to bear our labors, or why did he create the mighty Redwood Tree, if not for the sake of _us_ , his servants, to make use of the bounty he has left behind to inherit!?”

 

Dutch is drunk in a saloon again, in the growing town of Potburn, not too far south from the reviled Blackwater settlement. He is on one of his rants about manifest destiny. It is a subject Arthur knows Dutch enjoys very much, but perhaps only in theory, because every time he gets started in on it, especially after he has been drinking, Dutch convinces six or more locals to strike out further west towards California, but then decides the gang itself should rob a train and travel east instead. He does not say what they are all thinking, that free and unclaimed land is quickly passing into myth, and that their time as the wild roving creatures of this lawless land is almost at an end. Dutch likes the pretty words, and he has a theatrical way about him which makes it hard to look away, but today he is laying it on a little thick, and liquor glistens from where it has soaked into his mustache. But even drunk, his oration skills are legendary, and so he has attracted a small crowd of locals to listen to him preach.

 

“How beautiful is the man who _sacrifices_ himself for a _just cause!_ ”  Dutch declares grandly to a bevy of nodding townspeople, and Arthur leans back in his chair to clink whiskey glasses with Hosea when the saloon doors blow wide open, and a dozen O’Driscolls pour in through the hole. Right away Dutch is turning towards them even as Arthur and Hosea lay hands on their gun belts, but like the consummate professional he is, Dutch does not miss a beat. He only takes his hat off in mocking welcome, and shakes it at their very unwelcome company.

 

“A _hoard_ , ladies and gentlemen! A _veritable hoard_ ! What can we do you for, you filthy, _illiterate_ , ill-begotten, _conniving_ sons of a bastard who, lest I forget, _murders helpless women?_ ”

 

One of the O’Driscolls jerks forward, and he throws something bloody and wrapped in cloth into the middle of the table.

 

“Heard you was _missin’_ a... Lets just call it a _valuable_.” The O’Driscoll sneers, and Arthur leans forward to unwrap the parcel. When he has laid it bare, his whole body grows cold all over, until he feels Hosea’s skeletal hand like a vice on his shoulder.

 

“ _Where did you get this?_ ” Hosea asks with genuine anger in his voice, and at first, Arthur cannot make his frigid fingers work. He cannot make _anything_ work. He is stuck to the spot like glue.  

 

John’s bloody hat sits on the table in front of them, and a bullet hole has gone clean through the middle of it.

 

“Compliments of our _father_ ! Next time it’ll be the _workhorse_!” the head of the O’Driscoll hoard tips his own greasy hat towards Arthur, who is still too cold to respond, or even notice the threat, but the O’Driscolls are laughing and retreating anyway, long before any man among them can gather what has happened, and Arthur finally picks up the hat and turns it over in his hands. He can feel Hosea as tense as a board as he looks over his shoulder at it too.

 

“A lie,” Hosea breathes when the O’Driscolls are all gone, though Arthur is not fully convinced of his sincerity. “If they’d _really_ killed him, they woulda sent us some more _bits._ ”

 

Like with Annabelle, Arthur knows they would have brought John’s head to make the hurt transform into anguish, but even a finger unmatched to any body would have been enough to make Arthur’s blood boil near to the point of evaporation. Fortunately there is no finger, but the hat is surely John’s, and it is blood-spattered with a hole in it, and it promises that nothing good has happened. Arthur looks up at Dutch, entirely lost and afraid, and thirsty for his guidance like he hasn’t felt since he was a child. Dutch is looking down at the hat with thoughtful speculation in his eyes, and it is clear even drunk that he has already formulated at least half a plan. He sticks one hand in his vest like a general in a painting, and then he is broadly proposing,  “Who among you gentlemen is in the mood for a _hunt_?”    

  


 

~

 

 

 

The specificity of it is beyond denial.

 

A hat, with a hole in it. John’s hat, with a hole in it. John’s hat. John’s hat. John’s hat. John.

 

John is still gone, but a part of him has come home again, and it is not a part of him that Arthur likes at all. He dreams again about John being ripped apart, painted red all over with the gush of his arterial spray, but this time his aggressors are the O’Driscolls and not animals, though sometimes Arthur sees himself in their midst too, red up to his elbows with blood. He wakes up consecutive nights to this, dripping with nervous sweat. Finally, he has found a direction to point himself in to hunt down John, but he is sure he will not like what he finds when he follows this lead all the way through to the end.

 

John’s hat. John’s bloody hat with a bullet hole in it. They brought him John’s _hat_. John. John. John.

 

John.

 

 

~

  


 

John is gone eleven months when Dutch and Charles return to camp dragging the half-dead body of an O’Driscoll captive. They had discovered him sleeping on guard beneath a tree while staking out a nearby O’Driscoll camp, and the idiot was easier to capture than taking a piss. But what the O’Driscoll lacks for in stealth, he makes up for in stubbornness, and he says next to nothing about John except words to mock him, and even less about where the bloody hat has come from. They tie him to a tree by the cook wagon and question him more, but he refuses any further information, and then Arthur grows tired of it all takes out his knife and slams it into the O’Driscoll’s leg just above his kneecap. They can’t afford to wait to starve him, and there is no guarantee he will speak the truth even if they waited his hunger out, and so action is tantamount right now to saving John’s life, if he still even lives at all. When Arthur threatens to rip their captive’s kneecap inside-out, Hosea looks at Arthur with veiled concern, and Dutch looks at him with approval, and from his desk across the yard, Herr Strauss, the newest acquisition by the Van Der Linde Gang, regards this savagery with the calculated nod of an interested businessman.  

 

“ _Jesus Christ_ , I don’t know _! I don’t know!_ It was only meant ta rile you fellers up, just a chuckle, you know, you’re all so goddamn serious!” The O’Driscoll blabbers helplessly, and when Arthur jiggles the knife he throws up a little on himself over his own words, then he immediately admits everything he knows; “Okay, _alright_ , old feller, cease off already, _alright_ ! I’ll tell you all, I heard the boys sayin’ someting, I told you I don’t know _shit_ , sir, but I heard someting about, about _Blackwater_ . Yes, that’s right, I heard they got ‘im in _Blackwater_ ! Alive or dead, haven’t got a clue! Please, _now leave me be! I’ve told you all I know!_ ”

 

Blackwater is so close that Arthur can taste his own memories of it, and in that stricken moment he yanks down hard on the handle of his knife. He hears cartilage breaking as the kneecap rips away, and the O’Driscoll is wailing in pain when Arthur stands up and wipes his bloody blade clean on the thigh of his pants. He stuffs it back into it’s sheath and goes and sits by the fire where nobody interrupts or bothers him, and Abigail presses a bowl of stew into his hands with an equally deadly-serious look in her eyes. Arthur goes through the motions of trying to eat, but sighs in frustration in the end and tosses his stew into the fire, and then Charles sits down next to him and draws his eyes merely with a look. “ _Calm down_ , Arthur, you’re taking things too far. And you’re being wasteful.” He murmurs the advice, and Arthur can see the truth of it. Most people in the camp are regarding him right now with a healthy dose of nervousness and suspicion, except of course for Abigail, who looks close to picking up a knife herself.

 

Arthur puts down his empty bowl, and instead he picks up John’s hat. It is oily to the touch from years of wear, and the hole in it screams like a mouth, except the scream is in silence. Arthur thinks that he could scream too, that a scream is perched right there beneath the jut of his chin, but he does not scream, because it doesn’t serve a purpose. Maybe he only wants to laugh, he thinks, and he is confused about his feelings. Or maybe he wants to cry. Instead he listens to Charles, and he nods, and he says nothing, and he slowly breathes in and out through his nose.

 

If the O’Driscolls have murdered John, then at least there will be a body to bury. At least that way they will _know_ , once and for all, exactly what has happened. And then maybe, this can finally be the end of it, of course only after Arthur has murdered every O’Driscoll to the last man, and his hands are washed to the elbow in blood just like in his dreams. It seems so specifically fateful that John should be in Blackwater, so painfully pointed that Arthur is not entirely sure he isn’t under some sort of a curse. Blackwater, of all places, he thinks. _Blackwater_.

 

“Peace, my son.” Hosea also quietly councils, even as he presses a flask of whiskey into Arthur’s palm. Arthur accepts this gratefully and takes a swig, because he does not think he has ever been so angry, or so thirsty for whiskey in his life.

  


~

  


 

No child can be a material gift, but sometimes Arthur thinks that a long time ago, John was such a thing. Arthur is sure when Dutch first thrust the child upon him that it was Dutch’s way of tying Arthur down; of stating emphatically, _‘this is your place!’_ when Arthur had so recently been skimming the possibility of leaving the gang for good. He knows that Dutch has never wished for him to leave, again and again digging in the point that this is where Arthur belongs, that he is the moral, physical, and spiritual property of not only the Van Der Linde gang, but of Dutch Van Der Linde _himself_. But as much as Arthur knows he belongs to him, he knows that he truly belongs to no one; just like John belongs to Arthur too, and yet, he doesn’t. Every man should have his own agency but sometimes this has very little to do with the private yearnings of one’s heart.

 

It is a strange thing to think back on that snarling, snapping boy, the permanent streaks of dust on John’s skin making him look striated as a tree trunk.  Arthur does not know when the moment was he went from resenting John to fully loving him, it was so gradual that it felt a little like love had always been there, but love is dangerous and fickle, and it changes over time. It can shapeshift, morphing constantly into different forms, and Arthur is not sure he has ever felt such a complicated array of emotions towards any one person other than John, or of course towards his precious, permanently-disappointed Mary Linton.

 

Arthur thinks John and Mary could have made a decent go at friendship if John had been a little older, and if the situation was a little different, but for long years John spoke of Mary only with brevity and contempt, to the point where Arthur had cuffed him a few times across the head about it. Arthur figured, it had only been jealousy at the displacement of his brother, at the draw of Arthur’s attention in a direction having nothing to do with the gang, but later Arthur knew it was this, plus _extra_ , a different kind of jealousy at the time that Arthur had been unaware of, because he couldn’t quite understand yet how to see it. Now that Arthur has seen it, it haunts him.

 

It seems a fool’s errand to try to preserve the memory of John now. He has always been Arthur’s constant fixture, the thing he looks towards because he knows in return he needs John too. John is the nail that has hammered Arthur into place with a particular purpose for all these long years, the purpose of _teacher_ , the purpose of _brother_ , and without him Arthur feels set adrift in the wind of the world. Surely, there is no good in looking back and thinking of unnecessary things; things that have no bearing on how Arthur should conduct himself now that John is gone. But there is a senselessness in it all, like all of Arthur’s efforts with John have been for nothing, and that John is the one who has closed the door on Arthur’s chances at a better life. Distantly, Arthur knows that this is not true. It was Dutch who is to blame for feeding into Arthur’s hunger to make up for the loss of his son, but even knowing John was a bid by Dutch for control, it does not erase the moral obligations John has put on Arthur.

 

He has always felt distinctly needed by John. This contrarily does not erase the fact that John became the untouchable golden child while Arthur bent his back in service to the camp.  It is only that John is headstrong, too violent and erratic in his conduct to be anything other than a child, and one cannot hate a child for being young, even if Arthur resented him for it as much as it also made him love him. A child cannot be trusted to understand his own moral direction and reasoning right away, and it was only when Arthur believed that John had finally become a man that he at last stood back to let John live his life. But he has made a mess of that, and in turn, he has made a mess of Arthur. The both of them have suffered, and Arthur knows John is not half as grown as he once believed.

 

If John is dead, then nothing will make sense anymore, Arthur thinks. If John is dead, then everything up until this moment has been in vain. Arthur thinks he has tried his best to be the best teacher he can be, but there are limits to what he can take, and he has committed an atrocity in letting John care for him more than is appropriate. Perhaps, the dark inclination digs into him, it is an even bigger atrocity that he could not see that John would leave. Surely, he should have seen some evidence. Some sign that John was coming up on a breaking point, that he would sever all ties with the people that cared for him and held him in place all his life. Maybe that sign was John coming to him in the rainy wilderness and crawling inside his tent, but the problem was only that Arthur had been too dumb to see it. They have walked much too far into the mouth of hell together to find their way out again, and now that John has left him, Arthur walks the burning path alone.

 

If John is dead, then Arthur has failed a second time as a father, and he has failed as a brother and also as a friend. But Arthur cannot think about any of these things, because there can be no meaning in falling apart when there is a woman and a baby to still look after. His destruction would only cause them pain, and Arthur does not feel close to worthy enough to be the source of yet another family’s woes. He will receive his blood payment at the expense of the O’Driscolls, and then he will bury John in the ground, just like he has buried Isaac. John will join that dark place in his heart that he does not speak of, whose weight drags him down and grinds his bones with ceaseless, guilt-riddled memories. But Abigail will be alright, and perhaps the boy will be just fine, too, and Arthur figures, it is enough to live for work.

 

~

 

 

 

John is gone eleven and a half months when the Van Der Linde Gang makes the calculated plan to travel to the settlement of Blackwater. Everybody understands the risk, and the morning they prepare to move, Mary-Beth gives Arthur her blessing and a poem to tuck into his shirt. It is a poem about mindfulness and about love, and though like many of her other poems it is not very good, it means the world to Arthur to know he has a bit of the kindness of her heart settled over his own in a protective barrier. He hopes that it will keep his darkest thoughts at bay, and that it will make his hands fearless when instead they would otherwise be trembling. He hopes, with a vengeance, that the honest poem slicks his bullets with righteous fortune.

 

Most in the camp stay behind, but a handful of them strike out that first afternoon with the intention of going into the town and  probing as inconspicuous as possible for any information. Hosea will go by the stables to hunt for any familiar horses, and Dutch will go to sweet-talk the sheriff into producing any information of note about any local crime. Karen and Tilly will see if they can get in the favor of any of the town-residing O’Driscoll boys who have been seen overwhelmingly to still be sitting on the settlement, since the girls are seldom seen outside camp and none will recognize them for who they really are. Charles will keep an eye on the perimeter for any comings and goings, and he will ride in a wide circle about the town.

 

Arthur goes too, because he _will not_ be left behind, but above all he is counseled to stay low and out of sight until someone in the gang has summoned him. Arthur is too well known by the O’Driscolls as a favored son of Dutch, and he has now specifically been marked as a target. Walking around freely in the town could only serve as an act of stupidity, but keeping Arthur on rear guard allows Dutch’s gang to still hold on to the element of surprise. Arthur admits this is a valid approach, and he hides himself behind the gun store, but he still keeps a careful eye on Karen and Tilly as they ingratiate themselves into a group of Irishmen just outside the saloon.

 

Arthur cannot stop himself from imagining that John had been tortured. He had seen the mess the O’Driscolls made out of Annabelle, and to do such a thing to John would surely have Arthur on all fours, regurgitating the contents of his stomach. Their lives have always been notoriously brutal and short, but Arthur knows that prolonged torture serves no purpose except for the amusement of the torturer. Colm O’Driscoll is a nasty piece of work, but then so are all his boys, and the thought that they have shredded John apart is a living, gaping wound inside of Arthur’s chest. He does not want to think of John’s flesh rended so savagely, no matter how angry he is, just like he had never wanted to think of the death of the lonely wolf. He only thinks of collecting John’s body and putting him in the earth where it belongs, so he can be dignified once more in death. He is livid with the concept of John’s demise, nearby to some tripwire of insanity, and Arthur dwells on this morbid thought until one of the O’Driscolls wraps an unwelcome arm around Karen’s neck and fires off his gun into the air, and Tilly runs down the street, and then John Marston _himself_ runs out onto the porch of the saloon. Arthur thinks he is looking at a ghost, and he drops his gun in the dirt and doesn’t pick it up again, because he does not notice that he has even dropped it in the first place.

 

 

 _John_.

 

 

The greasy fool is drunk and filthy. His face is all red, and his hat-less hair is flying in oily strands when a man he apparently knows shouts something ignorant over his shoulder, and then the street is suddenly alive with the wild cracking of gunfire. Arthur sinks back behind the corner on impulse and finally retrieves his gun, and he hears Karen yell John’s name with the fevered heat of disbelief. He presses his back too hard into the wood of the building as he tries to gather himself, but he finds it is only when Karen’s attacker drags her very fortunately down his specific alley that he can stomp his legs back into feeling and do anything at all. John is alive. _John is alive,_ he thinks with repetitive shock, and he cannot shake the _unreality_ of it all.  

 

Arthur holsters his pistol as the world at his left and right sound with the motions of people shooting and running, and he turns and tackles Karen’s attacker at the midriff. It is only after they are on the ground that he realizes somewhat foolishly that he has taken Karen down too, but she weasels out from beneath them with no trouble, and Arthur finds he can grab the O’Driscoll’s neck like he would grab a rag doll. His adrenaline rush leads his body through a mechanical jerk and there is a loud crack Arthur feels against his shoulder, and then the man is dead in his arms. Karen steps back just in time for Arthur to look up at another approaching O’Driscoll, but the moment Arthur thinks that he has lost, the man’s head explodes in a veritable geyser of blood, which splatters in an arc across his face. The blood is still hot.

 

“Oh, _Johnny,_ I can’t believe it!” Karen’s voice is full of joy, and Arthur cannot stop himself from turning around to regard John Marston, _very much alive_ , standing with is revolver slowly lowering by his side. He looks drunk and debauched, as if he had just now walked outside from a brothel, except for the bits of brain and bone on his duster jacket. He looks stuck for words, but he also looks unharmed, and more than anything he seems confused.

 

John has not been in any danger, Arthur realizes. This idea is like a flicker of fire as it slowly catches the corner of a book, and soon enough the idea blazes up, full of fuel and much too hot to touch.

 

Arthur is on his feet, somehow. He doesn’t remember the purpose of it. He only wants to be closer to this unnatural phenomenon, this mirage of a person that surely must be a trick, because Arthur has struggled for so long with John’s absence. The fact that John has not been tortured, _that he is not dead or even injured,_ only compounds the absurdity of everything. John looks equally bushwhacked by the situation, until Arthur drifts too close, and then he is jerking up his chin in some pantomime of dignity that Arthur is suddenly sure he will strip away from his wayward brother when given the first available opportunity. John has not _returned_ of his own volition. John has not even had a need to be _rescued_. John has only been awkwardly uncovered, and the mockery this makes out of all of Arthur’s suffering is too profound to even mention. It takes Arthur’s breath away. He cannot speak to Abigail’s pain either, or any of the rest of them, except for the fact that John is suddenly and unanimously deserving of punishment; and so punishment is served immediately.

 

Arthur jerks back his fist and cold-cocks John without a word right there in the alley. It is no surprise when he hits the ground immediately, quick and hard, passed out cold without a word of protest. When it is done, Karen comes over to Arthur and they look down at John crumpled in the dirt. Arthur is breathing hard even though he hasn’t moved, and it takes a minute to notice Karen is still with him.

 

“... _Found the little bastard._ ” He breathes at her, “Didn’t expect it’d be... so _soon_.”

 

“He’s alive!” Karen whispers in awe, even as the gunfire continues out in the street, “I thought--? Well I guess it don’t matter what I thought. That’s a nasty enough business without all this hullabaloo added to it.”  She waves her hand at the street. “He don’t look too much like he’s been holed up with no O’Driscolls!”

 

Arthur shakes his head, and his lips press tightly together. “No, I don’t reckon that’s where he’s been at all.”

 

“Then where’s he been?”

 

Gunfire bursts apart their introspection and a body falls through the mouth of the alley. It is not an O’Driscoll, he looks instead like a trapper of some sort from the various baubles tied to his pelt-stitched clothes, and there is seemingly no more time to consider the mysteries of John’s apparent year of uninhibited vacation. A fight is still raging, and they have found what they have come for. Arthur bends down and collects John’s limp body, throwing him over his shoulder, and they exit the entire cacophony out through the back way. They skirt the main roads and duck down alleys until they rendezvous with Charles just outside the town, who has been towing Arthur’s horse along behind him.

 

“Is he dead?” Charles questions in a neutral voice at the body, even though his eyes trace back to Arthur’s face with concern. He cocks his head to the side in questioning even further when Arthur only grunts at him once, then hefts John’s limp body like a potato sack across the back of the gelding he is riding.

 

“Not dead.” Arthur grumbles in a very regular voice for him, the kind of voice which has been missing for a long time, and he swings himself up into the saddle in front of John. “Just a fool.” he concludes, and he does not see it when Charles shoots him a sly grin.

 

“Karen, you go find Tilly and Dutch, Hosea will be too clever to have gotten gummed up in all this mess.” Arthur commands, and Karen nods at him and makes to rush off, but he tisks a few times and rides his jittery mount in a calming circle, shoulders threaded through with strength, then makes an amendment to his statement. “Find them! But don’t say a word about _him quite yet_ , you hear?” he jerks his head at John’s floppy body.

 

“You gonna kill him yourself?” Charles laughs, and Arthur cracks a sincere grin, surprised he can feel the sensation of amusement at all.

 

“Just… A _couple_ hours. It’s all I ask. Alright, Charles? Karen? _Then_ I’ll bring him back, proper. I swear it.”

  


They nod at him. They love Arthur, and he also loves them completely, and perhaps nobody on Earth can understand two brothers settling old business better than other siblings. Karen smiles, and Arthur furnishes her with one of his pistols, and she rushes off again back into the mire. Then Charles is tapping his foot on his mare’s side in a delicate pattern, and her hooves lift up in a dance, and it is something joyous to look at, a private ceremony between the two of them for the purpose of celebration. Charles is smiling down into his saddle, all white teeth and relief in his face, and he turns his horse around and makes her take a bow to Arthur before he finally takes his leave. “Congratulations, brother! It’s not often death is met with life. Remember that for when he wakes up, why don’t you?” he grins, and then Charles is galloping around the settlement towards the stables, and towards Hosea, and Arthur turns his horse towards the kind of wilderness one can only find very far away from any road.  

  
  


John is found, but this is just the beginning, since he has so much explaining to do that Arthur thinks there mighty likely could still very well be a murder. But John is still alive somehow, and John is for the most part still whole, and so Arthur will give him the chance at least to explain himself and all that has transpired. It is inevitable that they should return to camp together, that Arthur will return John to Abigail again, _hogtied if necessary,_ but he knows there is some private business between them that has yet to be settled. They are poor at speaking with one another about anything serious, but Arthur knows it must be done just the same. It is about maybe being lovers, but more than that it is definitely about being brothers, and even more than that, it is about honor, and what that really mean between the both of them. John must explain _what_ has happened, and _where_ it has happened, and _why it has happened in the first place_ , and Arthur only hopes he is not too concussed to do this.

 

Arthur kicks his horse into a canter with the thought that the universe, in all its unknowable majesty, has just provided him with a second chance. A chance to punch John in the face again once he has woken up, and a chance to punch him a third time even after that, until John’s eyes are purple and Arthur feels a modicum of satisfaction, of _justice,_ for what has been done to them all. It is a chance that is, in every way, the opposite of the _chancelessness_ of a hole in the ground, how the finality of dirt in his shovel had thus far prevented the thought that Arthur was even permitted to be angry. Primarily, Arthur is relieved, but he is also very many other things too, and before he can return the traitor to his family there will be a final reckoning.

 

He feels John shift sluggish over the saddle behind him, then mumble some nonsense words, _“nnn, said a man AND a woman, pigfuckin’ idot,_ ” before he is quiet again, but Arthur knows how resilient John’s skull is from all the times he has been kicked by a horse as a child.  

 

They ride completely unnoticed out into the wilderness and away from the town, into the steady brightness of the afternoon, and for once there is not even a single cloud in the sky.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, Arthur, okay my dude, CALM DOWN. Jesus, man, your anxiety is giving me heartburn! This chapter was pretty meandering, I don't think the specific structure of this writing was ever meant to stretch out this long? So far chapter 4 is really a highlight for me, but damn it, you guys, the final chapter is also really shaping up to be a serious banger. Get ready to grab your dicks/hearts/tissues///mmmmaybe hhhhhammers????? because it's gonna be a good one.
> 
> What are some things you'd like to see concluded in this story that hasn't already been wrapped up? We are going straight on through Colter, where I will end it. What parts do you like, and what other parts seem unnecessary? Should they fuck or what, I guess is what I'm saying. If canon wasn't a concern here John would give Arthur the rimjob of his LIFE!!!!! Because he deserves it!!!!!!!!!! Oh my god!!!!!!! But that seems like a real stretch though, both canonically, according to this specific story's lore and also just to like, sex practices of the time? Did people even eat ass in cowboy days??? Inquiring minds want to know???? But fanfiction is a magic spell and I am a wizard, so idk guys, you tell me what you want and I'll try to be mindful of it within reason. Next chapter John and Arthur fuck (each other up???) and then we finally move on to THE BLACKWATER DISASTER! Please kill me.


	7. Chapter 7

Speckled thrushes fly out of a patch of reeds as they rustle, tall stalks stuck all over with clusters of yellow-shelled snails. Arthur rides his gelding through a creek with no name, and he turns his mount towards the afternoon sun. With John’s comatose body still slung across his horse’s back and the promise of privacy ahead of them to get the hard talking done, Arthur thinks he loves the quiet, _right in this moment_ , more than he has in a very long time. There is something holy about open land, when he can see for miles and miles in every direction without a road in sight, and the blue sky tucks around the edges of the world in a mighty dome. He does not remember the last time he went out riding and felt the peace he feels now, because for a hundred years he thinks he has been dead inside. Now that fresh life has stirred within him again, matching the stir John makes behind Arthur’s saddle, every sound feels fresh. He listens to the clomp of heavy hooves in the grass, the snort of his horse’s breath, and the cry of circling birds of prey far above their heads. Somewhere nearby there must be a carcass, or maybe the birds only know of some secret, that a predator stalks ever closer to a roaming herd of deer. Perhaps Arthur has not been _fully_ resurrected yet, not _completely_ , but once more he feels the gust of the living world around him like he hasn’t felt it in months.

 

When John moans into the horse’s flank and begins to rouse, Arthur turns an ear back to monitor his behavior. But he is still surprised when John jerks up with a sudden gasp and falls immediately off the back of the horse. John hits the ground and is up and running before Arthur is sure he has even fully woken up, and Arthur circles his gelding around with a reticent sigh, and then he reaches slowly for his lasso.

 

The rope flies over John’s head and for a moment it seems Arthur has caught him around the chest, but the fool stumbles unexpectedly and the rope tightens further down, catching John around the knees and jerking his legs out from beneath him. John hits the ground face-first, smashing his purpling nose from Arthur’s punch directly into the dirt, and when Arthur rolls off his horse and follows the rope down to him, maybe he isn’t as gentle as he could be. John is still half-dazed, and Arthur can tell he isn’t seeing clearly, yet when he wrestles John’s arms behind his back and shoves him into the grass he can feel a familiarity in John, a recognition. Not that it matters. He still hog-ties him on the spot.

 

“ _Arthur_ ? That you?” John sputters in the dirt. Maybe he really is waking up.  “ _Damn_ you, that _hurts! Let me go!_ ”

 

“Can’t even _act like you was in trouble,_ can you _?_ ” Arthur grumbles, and hitches the knot binding John’s hands even tighter, until John hisses and grinds his teeth. “Can’t _swim_ , can’t _fight_ , can’t even _run away_ proper. The hell am I gonna do with you?”

 

“ _Bastard._ ” John groans, and Arthur rolls him over until they are face-to-face. Gripping him by his bindings, Arthur picks John up and slams him down again to force some of the fight out of him. For the first time in months they are really together again, breathing much too hard and looking far too closely at each other. Arthur feels a lump rise in his throat at John’s familiar stink, and his fingers dig into John’s chest. He is awake now, that is for sure, and he is growing steadily more swollen between his eyes. John’s nose has likely been broken by that sucker punch, but Arthur doesn’t feel bad about it at the present moment. Instead, he grins a grin that is edged by anger.

 

“I ain’t a _bastard_ by definition, my folks was married, I think I told you that. _And_ I _got_ another family, the one I _chose_ , remember? Or maybe you don’t. Can’t say the same about _your_ family no more.”

 

 _“Let me go_ !” John demands on a low note, his lips barely moving, but Arthur only grins an even angrier grin and shakes his head, still too close to John’s face for comfort. “I don’t think so, cowboy. You got _one hell_ of a tall tale to weave me first.”  He spits in the dirt by John’s ear to make him flinch, but when John doesn’t react how Arthur wants, they both just keep on staring. John jerks in his grip, testing his restraints, and Arthur raises the back of his hand in a threat to cull this behavior. This makes John lie still again, though his eyes are smoky with resentment, and Arthur figures this entire situation is bound to turn into the worst kind of uphill battle.

 

Arthur hefts John up and carries him over his shoulder like a sack of flour for what feels like an eternity, but he knows the spot he picks doesn’t matter. He is only trying to calm himself down by borrowing a little extra time. They are situated in the middle of a vast stretch of grass, kissed here and there by patches of ice, but the ground is mostly dry, and riddled with lumpy charcoal-colored rocks. When they come upon a boulder bigger than a cart which has half sunk into the hill, Arthur finally throws John back down on the ground again and goes to sit with his back against the big rock. He doesn’t help John to sit up, though John manages the feat on his own after an effort, and Arthur makes no pretense about untying him.

 

“You and me?” Arthur grins again when John has righted himself, without a trace of humor, and he takes out his tobacco pouch and begins to roll a cigarette. “We have got some _unfinished business._ ”

 

“You ain’t kiddin’.” John agrees. He is comical and useless inside his cocoon of rope, and his greasy hair has fallen in his face.

 

John seems well enough, Arthur observes, except for the broken nose. And perhaps he is still a little drunk, but the shock of Arthur’s presence alone looks like it is sobering him up rapidly, and John keeps skating their surroundings with nervous eyes, as if he is scared of something. Arthur wonders briefly if it is him. It _should_ be him, he thinks after that, with a grim determination.

 

The fact that John has not died is continuously distracting. Arthur thinks he has enough reason to be madder than a scorpion right now, but for all he’s worth he is still caught between incredulity and wonder that _John is alive_ , and it prevents him somewhat from gathering his thoughts. He lights the tip of his cigarette and inhales deeply, feeling the buzzy head rush all the way down into the tips of his fingers. John’s face is the same, and yet it is different. The bruising is inconsequential, because it is only his eyes which have ever mattered, and they flash with vitality like they used to but something else has grown heavier in them too. Arthur is sure he cannot tell what that means, and he knows he is no good with his words right now except to tease, because cruelty is far simpler than saying something which is both kind _and_ true.  But he thinks hard on what he can say without writing out a whole bible’s length of complaints, and in the end he settles on the question which is the most obvious of them all;

 

“ _Why’d you run_ , John?”  

 

This seems to amuse John, but also to hurt him. He laughs out loud, and then he leans as far forward as his ropes will allow so his head is bowed over in what might be shame, but then he snaps up straight again and demands, “Roll me a smoke, why don’t you?”

 

“ _Shoah_! ...When you deserve it.”

 

“And when’s _that_ gonna be, Arthur? Huh? When I’m dead?”

 

“Seems like you made it through so far _just fine!_ You got that habit! _Greasin’_ along. Slippin’ _right on_ _through_ things? Danger? _Obligations_? Must be nice.”  

 

“... _Didn’t want one anyway_ .” John huffs under his breath at Arthur’s obvious rebuke, and then he looks at the ground this time with a distinct air of actual shame. The silence stretches out, until Arthur thinks he can feel his blood coagulating in his throat. Instead of yelling, he only stubs his cigarette out on his boot, because he cannot stomach _any_ taste anymore, and he leans forward with a serious look.

 

“Alright, Marston , listen to me good. This is what’s about to happen. You’re gonna explain right now _exactly_ _what_ you thought was so _goddamn good_ about this plan of yours to take off like you don’t matter, and then I’m gonna throw you over my horse again and take you back to Abigail. Once we get back to camp? You’re gonna get on your _knees, boy,_ and _beg her_ for her forgiveness. But first? You’re gonna _beg me_ to let you even do that much. You been gone a long time, John. A real long time. No guarantees Dutch’ll even let you back in neither, even if I do.” Arthur sneers, “Which I might not! Depends, don’t it? On what you say. _How_ you say it.”   

 

Arthur only threatens, because he cannot think of the possibility that John might not _want_ to come home-- he has only been uncovered, after all, he has not _voluntarily_ returned, and Arthur’s worst fears are realized when John spits on the ground and levels him with a glare and says, “Who the hell decided I was gonna come back in the first place?”

 

“ _I did._ ” Arthur grits, very contrary to what he has just now said, and he dips his head to hide his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. He is almost too angry to control himself, on the brink of some other sort of violence, but he contains himself by wringing his fingers together in his lap, and taking in a very deep breath.

 

John laughs again, and it is a crueler sound than before. “ _You_? That a joke, Morgan? You was the one who sent me on my way in the first place!”

 

“ _The hell’s that mean?_ ” He whispers at the dirt.

 

“I think you know, Arthur. That night? How I felt? Thought I made myself... _clear_.”

 

Arthur’s stomach sinks, sour bile churning around, and he feels miserable enough to shoot something. He cannot tolerate the thought that John abandoning them was his fault, and he tries not to let this show on his face, but he knows he is a rotten liar. John has that look, Arthur can see it even out of the corner of his eye… that look like he has seen clear through Arthur’s tough facade, as easily as if tearing through paper. There is a sinking familiarity in how well they can tear each other apart. They know each other far too well by now. Even after all this time, it is only brothers and lovers who would know how to cut this deep, their many sharp edges honed by years of experience. Arthur takes off his hat and scrubs his fingertips across his scalp, too frustrated to think clearly, and when he lies on purpose it is less a lie, and more a point he is trying to make; “Don’t think I _do_ know what you mean, John. _Explain it_.”

 

That seems to shut John up. Arthur thinks John has somehow not been able to call Arthur’s ploy, which is rare. At first John looks appalled, and then he looks wounded, and then he looks off over the empty field. His poker face is useless right now. As useless as his voice.

 

“...That’s just _fine_ ...” Arthur whispers coldly at the lack of response, and then he gets up to unpack some of his cooking supplies. He had assumed from the start that they would be here for a goodly while.  “.. _.I can wait_.”

 

This is a dangerous game. Arthur knows it, and John knows it, and they sit in silence while Arthur grills a little bit of meat on his bowie knife over a new fire. He doesn’t offer to share any with John, who is palpably uncomfortable by how tight the ropes are, but John is stubborn as a mule so he doesn’t speak out loud even to complain. Arthur is resigned to this conversation, swearing to himself that everything must end here. If John is alive and he is coming home, then there can be no more confusion between them, but confusion is all there can be until one of them states their situation plainly. It is a game of chicken where neither of them is liable to buckle, and they sit stubborn and silent as stumps until the sky to the west begins to turn purple, and a tendril of sunset creeps out over the horizon and brings with it the chill of the night.

 

Arthur thinks that this kind of loving is too violent. The constant pulse of his desire for John over the years has become a curse beset upon him, made to make him suffer for all the wrongs he has done in his past. Arthur thinks he must learn to love John more mildly, because the strength of his affections, if left unchecked, will surely one day bring him ruin. He cannot love like that anymore, like he had loved Mary, and like for a while he had loved his own son. There is nothing good that can come from that selfish kind of emotion. An all-consuming love does just exactly that; _it_ _consumes_. But Arthur cannot give anymore than what is appropriate, because people rely on him to get things done, and Arthur thinks if he continues on loving John like he has been, then one day John will surely be the death of him.

 

But in the evening light, there is still something flighty and bewitching about John, even after all he has done; after how long he has been gone, even covered in dirt,  purple-faced and scowling from inside Arthur’s winding length of cruel rope. John has always been feral, and perhaps that is the problem; that Arthur has always loved the wide open wilds, and John is a creature that has surely come from there. John is the part of nature that cannot and _should not_ be contained, like the scraggly lone wolf which had followed their camp. It seems distinctly wrong to force John to any belief system, but Arthur knows that without logic, the world would only be chaos. By now it is far too late for Arthur to abandon his credences of faith and honor for himself, or for anyone else.

 

“...I got conditions.” Eventually John rasps, when the sky has finally gone full black. It is not exactly the answer Arthur was expecting, but it is a start. They seem alone in the world after the sun has sunk, and John’s voice is too raw and small in the vast emptiness of the outside world to be real. He is so fragile in that moment, his voice sounding like it has sounded in Arthur’s nightmares, shallow and unsure, a shade away from death. It seems that the campfire’s light is all that is holding them together; that the fire is all there is, and if it were to go out, then they would surely both be flung up into the inky night sky. They would get lost somewhere up there, in whatever deep kind of darkness it is that spreads apart the stars.

 

“I’ll come back, Arthur. I… I _want_ to. I swear it, I do. I’m useless alone. But I got _conditions_.” John cuts to the quick.

 

Maybe John was never meant to be loved quite like a person is loved, Arthur thinks, because that kind of love will only tie him down. But Arthur thinks one more time of drawing John’s portrait up in the sun-dappled tree, of really _seeing_ him when before he had only ever looked at him, and Arthur thinks he is too selfish altogether not to try to tame this wild beast for the good of the family. It is what is best for Abigail, and for Jack, even if it is no good for John himself. A wolf is not a dog, after all. It can live like a dog and accept human touch like a dog, but it will never love in the same way that a dog can, though it can make one hell of a lookout. It is dangerous as it is unfair, but Arthur wants the lone wolf to come home. Arthur is not sure what he wants John to say about love, not sure which answer might be worse, so he sits in the chilly silence and he tries to make a joke out of all of it; “ _Conditions_! My, my! Is that right? Well, I suppose I got a few of those myself!”

 

“‘Course you do. I’d be a fool not to think that.”

 

Arthur snorts. “ _Always_ been a fool.”

 

John gives Arthur a sour look, then rolls his eyes to the side, regret quickly replacing everything else whole. “...maybe that’s so. You think a man can make amends if he tries? If he _really_ tries?”

 

“Depends on if he deserves to be forgiven or not.”

 

“Do _I_?”

Arthur rubs a shaky hand over the back of his neck. John is alive, but Arthur is _still_ heartbroken. It takes a minute for him to answer. “...Not quite so sure of that, yet.”

 

It must be betrayal that has struck this wound so deep within him, though Arthur does not know anymore which thing he feels most betrayed by: John loving him, or John leaving him. John’s returning, or John’s demanding. Or John’s existence itself. They are all wounds that will not so easily be healed.

 

“Alright, Arthur. Let’s make a _compromise_ , just the two of us.” John tries to reason, then he asks carefully after an edgy silence, “I won’t run, can you untie me now? Can hardly feel my fingers.”  

 

Giving him a reticent look that goes unspoken for much too long, eventually Arthur sighs, and then he rolls forward off the boulder, and he goes to untie John.

 

Compromise is not too difficult for Arthur most of the time. It is an art he is practiced in, because Dutch cannot compromise, and so Hosea as a consequence has taught everyone else nearby how to do it. Compromise has only ever been in service of the same goal, of doing what is best for everyone, but _this_ compromise is strange for Arthur because it is not favors he is bartering with this time, it is his own feelings.

 

John is free again and rubbing his sore wrists and leaning closer to the fire when he starts to outline his demands. “Firstly? You gotta quit treating me like a kid. I’m _grown_ , Arthur, you ain’t my daddy. Hell, _Dutch_ ain’t even him, not in God’s eyes anyway. And, it’s... _strange_ , everything accounted for.”

 

Arthur chuckles and nods, his back flush against the boulder again, because the truth is very ugly. But he keeps his quiet, letting John continue.  

 

“I wanna get pulled in on the bigger jobs. If I’m supposed to be a half-decent family man then I’ll need some _real money_. I wanna get Abigail what she wants, and I’d prefer it if that didn’t take too long. She’ll probably stab me in the stomach while I’m sleepin’ anyway, if I set foot back in camp again without any sorta plan. I need respect. I need you to back me up.”

 

This scenario is already a nightmare. Arthur nods. “What else?”

 

This time John gives a nervous pause, seeming to do some secret battle within himself, but when he looks up again his eyes are as blazing as the fire. “I want you. That’s the last condition.”

 

“Me?” Again Arthur laughs, mostly because he feels sick inside. John is ridiculous, and Arthur folds his arms too tight across his chest. “ _No_ , no. Oh no, that’s over and done with. _No_ , I told you that already, no.”

 

“ _You_ decided that, _not_ me.”

 

“Oh it’s done with! You know it’s _wanting_ that gets folk in trouble?”

 

“Jesus, Arthur! I _swear_ you’d shoot your own reflection if you thought it’d kill your heart off quicker than whiskey!”

 

That strikes cold. Arthur tries not to let it hurt him. He knows John has been watching him for years. He holds still, but his eyes dart down to look into the fire. The light plays in strips and flickers across the rocky ground, and he follows it back up to John, who is kissed by yellow again along the jaw like Arthur has seen him so many times before. Like he has always adored. John is beautiful. Arthur finds he cannot crush his hurt, but it is worry that replaces hurt soon enough. Nobody has said _it_ aloud yet. Neither of them seems capable. But _it_ is right there, plain as the fire between them.

 

As usual, it is John who finally wrestles his way to the point of things first. He doesn’t say _it_ , but he almost says it, hedging close enough to burn.

 

“I know how you feel about it, Arthur, _I do_ , but I ain’t _done_ with you yet, you hear me? I can’t leave off, I also got some _unfinished business_ with _you_ . I ran away because I was _trapped_ . By Abigail, and by the baby. I didn’t wanna be no father! I _hate_ fathers! But not you. _Never_ you. I could _never_ hate you, Arthur, but you trapped me just as bad, with _circumstance_ , just like they did. You remember what I said that night?”

 

There is too much burr in Arthur’s throat to answer out loud, so he only gives an unsteady nod.

 

“I dunno what I was thinkin’, to be perfectly honest. I was…real angry. But I suppose I thought…? Maybe you didn’t love me no more. And that got to be...? Well, it was just _too much_. Abigail was one thing, and the baby, but without you I just didn’t see the point.”

 

Now Arthur _has to_ say something, but it is a challenge, and he clears his throat first. His eyes stay on the fire. “...Who said I didn’t?”

 

“Didn’t _love_ me? Dunno. You did. Nobody did.” John’s shoulders sag as he stares into the fire too, obviously completely ashamed.

 

“I’ll never stop loving you.” Arthur’s voice is barely above a whisper when he _finally_ says what they fear, and they are not looking at each other at all anymore. The real truth is much too private to bear, and there is some small solace to be found in the heat of the flames. “...You’re _still_ my brother. You’ll always be that.”

 

“Yeah, well. _Brothers_ ain’t enough.”

 

“That’s the way it is, John. There’s no more. You got your family. Your boy.”

 

“Might not even be mine.”

 

“ _Don’t_.” Arthur grits. “Don’t make it worse than it is.”

 

John sighs, and Arthur can hear him shifting when he displaces the pebbles beneath him. They clank into the rock ring the fire is built inside, and Arthur hears one plink off the boulder above his head. John is _throwing_ them. Petulant. Childlike.

 

“I done a lot of thinking out there, Arthur. A _lot_ of thinking. Told you, I got this last condition. Maybe you’re alright now, but _I_ sure as hell ain’t. I’ll come back to camp like you asked me, I’ll get down on my hands and knees and kiss Abigail’s _feet_ , if that’s what you want.” Arthur nods silently, even when he thinks vehemently that this is not what he wants, not really, and John’s voice takes a turn serious enough that Arthur finally looks back up at him again. John’s eyes are very dark, and they are very sad. “You hear me? I’ll do it, if that’s what _you_ want. If _you_ want that, Arthur Morgan. But you gotta sleep with me one more time. My terms. I decide when and where.”

 

“Ever the _prize_ fuckin’ _pony_!” Arthur erupts with a shocked sputter of disbelief, “ _Entitled_ _as usual_ , ain’t you?”

 

But then Arthur is thinking of the night in Blackwater when John had come to him in his dark bedroom. He had made a decision for the both of them that night too. John had peeled his clothes off one at a time and dropped them on the floor, and he had ridden Arthur until he felt like time itself had lost all its meaning. Arthur still thinks that if he had died that night, everything up until that moment would have been worth it. Because it had truly been _that good_ . He pauses. “...it’s a... fine _dream_ I suppose, John, but I told you, it ain’t right. That’s over.”

 

“Ain’t a dream. You and me. Let me say goodbye my own way. If you say yes, I’ll come back. Just as you asked me. That’s the compromise.”

 

Arthur scoffs, and settles his hat farther back on his head. “And when _exactly_ do you suppose it’s _really_ done with, then? _I_ say it’s over, then _you_ say it’s over, but it ain’t ever _really_ over, now is it? Round and round. When’s the true end? When the cows come home?”

 

“I swear it, _this_ is the end.”

 

“Nuh-uh, your swear’s no good here. No honor. Can’t take you at your word.”

 

“After this? If you say it’s done then I’ll hang up my hat. I’ll try and be a _real_ family man, alright? You want me to cut my palm and shake on it in blood?”

 

“No.” Arthur sighs. He cannot _believe_ he is letting himself follow down this line of logic. “Best save your bleedin’ for when Abigail disembowels you back at camp.”

 

Arthur doesn’t look at John, not even when there is a palpable pause. “So, that a _yes_?” John prompts after a quiet, and Arthur sighs longer, heavier, drawn out as a winded horse. He feels the crick in his neck brought on by stress when he looks down at the ground. Firelight dances across the dry grass between his boots.

 

Arthur suspects this is not the last time John will make a fool of him. Try as he might, Arthur sometimes cannot predict the ways that love will make him behave, but he is sure that it will end up no good, because Arthur has the permanent heart of a child and he has stopped believing since Mary Linton that he will ever truly grow up. And, of course, he wants John to come home. He wants this more than anything. He finally gives a single, reticent nod.

 

John grins at Arthur over the fire in silence, and Arthur does not see it when John’s pulp of a face is lit up by a dancing, beatific gold.

 

 

~

 

 

When Arthur hoists John up behind him in the saddle, it is bittersweet as it is familiar. It has been years since they have ridden together, and John’s arms grip Arthur’s chest in a manner that does not need to be too tight to be painful. Arthur kicks out the gelding and then they are speeding across the grass, and there is a moment where time lifts up and suspends itself among the stars.

 

This is how it should be, Arthur thinks as he sucks in the rush of the cool night air. Just the two of them together, lost somewhere between day and night. He has always ridden too fast while John is with him, pushing his horse farther and harder than he would alone, because he likes it when John is forced to squeeze him to keep his balance, and the act of riding keeps them busy enough that it is difficult to talk. Before, when John had been young, riding too fast had been for the purpose of giving the petulant brat a scare. But when John was older, it became more obvious that less things frightened him as easily, and so Arthur had worked twice as hard to give him that same fright. Now, after everything, there is no more intent for fear and only adrenaline remains, and the buffering, chilly wind surrounds them in a rush. They listen to the hard, thudding weight of the horse’s hooves trampling the ground. There is the sweet stink of sweat, and the bitter bite of the night, and the taste of dried grass at the backs of their throats.

 

Dawn is close. Arthur can feel it, not on his skin, but in his heart. He considers turning his horse around and riding hard in the opposite direction, not intent on running away with John specifically, but only riding with him into the sunrise. He does not know where the sun touches the ground, how far away it is, but he is sure they could make it together if he gallops fast enough. He thinks once they are in that kingdom, then at last John will have discovered the land where he was born. There, they would have finally found paradise.

 

But Arthur rides west instead, because no other direction is so ingrained in him as that one, and he accepts the _compromise_ that they have not ridden east when he feels John press his face into the back of his shoulder. He thinks that this compromise is not everything, but it is enough for now, and John pushes ever closer against Arthur’s back as the first spark of morning light blazes across the horizon in an orange streak.  

 

John is coming home at last.

 

~

 

 

 

When Arthur stands John up in front of Abigail, she slaps him hard across the face, and then she hugs him harder than Arthur has ever seen her try to love any person before. This is all far too fast for John to kneel down in front of her to kiss her feet like Arthur has stipulated, but there is plenty of time for that later, and so Arthur thinks it is just fine for her to release her feelings any way she pleases. Abigail is half laughing and half crying, and all screaming at him a breath after that, and Jack begins to wail at the commotion because it is actually that loud. John sighs and goes to pinch the bridge of his nose before he remembers that it is broken, and he is doubled over in pain while Abigail yells, and the rest of the camp circles around them to welcome John back.

 

Bill ruffles John’s hair, and Javier shakes him and hugs him, calling him _‘estupido idiota!’_ and then chucks him in the shoulder. Lenny laughs, and Mary-Beth cries, and Micah Bell paces around the periphery until he gives a sick huff and vanishes into the trees. Pearson shoves John down by the fire and sticks a bowl of stew in his hands, and Susan Grimshaw kisses John’s forehead, which he seems genuinely touched by.

 

John freezes in place and everyone grows silent when Dutch finally pulls back the flap of his tent. He walks slowly over to the fire, and for a lingering, terrifying moment he stands frowning too hard down at John, with his white sleeves folded across his immaculate black vest. But then a twitch tugs at his mustachioed mouth, and he wordlessly opens his arms, and John spills his stew in his haste to stand up and accept Dutch’s embrace. As they hug, Dutch caresses John’s greasy hair with fatherly affection, and he murmurs, “I _knew_ you couldn’t stay away forever, my sweet boy. _Welcome home_.”  

 

Arthur thinks with a twang of annoyance that Dutch had once proposed tarring and feathering John if he ever returned, and that this welcome is far better than John deserves. But Hosea is laying a restraining hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and Charles is giving him a knowing look from across the camp from where he had been quietly whittling, and so Arthur only shifts in place and decides not to voice this opinion out loud. Tilly runs up to him and she wraps herself around his other side in amicable companionship, until Arthur puts his arm around her too. When Karen scoops up little Jack to coo at him and soothe his complaining, Hosea’s hand leaves Arthur’s shoulder and he shouts, “Let’s have some music! And some _dancing_!”

 

When his fathers walk off together, Arthur knows it is to get the _very_ _good whiskey_ meant for special celebrations, and that everyone feels John’s return is such. Arthur feels he does not accept all of this altogether, but he does feel for the first time in a _very, very long stretch_ that all is right with the world. Or at least, as he looks at John’s head being crushed in Abigail’s arms while she hugs him, he thinks that it is very _nearly_ right.

 

~

 

 

“A psalm of David, regarding a time when David was in the wilderness of Judah. O God, you are my God; I earnestly search for you. My soul thirsts for you; my whole body longs for you in this parched and weary land where there is no water! Because your loving devotion is better than life, my lips will glorify you! My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips. On my bed I remember you; I think of you through all the watches of the night! I cling to you; your strong right hand upholds me securely. Those who want to kill me will be destroyed! They will go down to the depths of the earth! They will die by the sword, and become the food of jackals. So the poor have hope, and injustice shuts its mouth!”

 

Reverend Swanson is drunk again in the early morning. He is still awake with the first chirping birds, because he has not yet retired from the previous night, and he walks about the camp reading passages from the bible with such aplomb that Arthur is forced to stop him up short, because it is that bothersome to folk. When Arthur looks down, he sees that the Reverend has been marking out certain lines in his bible, which Arthur would have considered sacrilegious if he had even once thought that Christianity had any real merit.  

 

“Reverend Swanson! What’ve you got there?”

 

“Why, words of comfort, my son, and words of sorrow too! The Lord is _with us_ here, in this barren land, but sometimes he is more, erruh…. _difficult_ to find, than other times.”

 

“Speakin’ from _personal_ experience?” Arthur offers a dry grin, and he tries to pry the bible out of Swanson’s hands. The Reverend jerks it back with a wobble, and when he loses his page he kicks up such a fuss that Arthur releases the book entirely. Swanson stumbles back even further, then rights himself. Incensed at Arthur’s behavior, he reaches out and delivers a sharp whack with the bible across Arthur’s arm.

 

“ _Ouch_ !” Arthur flinches away. “Ain’t that un-christianly, Reverend? I thought you was preachin’ _peace_ and _prosperity_ here!”

 

“Yes, yes, _prosperity_ , that’s all well and good, Mister Morgan, but did you know that blessed are those who hunger and thirst for _righteousness!?_ ”

 

“I am sure I do not know what you mean. What’re you gettin’ at exactly, Reverend? Tell me if you’d like, but please, _lower_ your voice. ”

 

“Why, He is _the bread of the world_ , my dear boy! Err, or, was it..? ...Was it something else?”   

 

Reverend Swanson pauses drunkenly to press his nose back into his bible, entirely dropping his last thread of coherent logic. “On the last and greatest day of the feast, Jesus stood up and called out in a loud voice, ‘ _If anyone is thirsty, let him come and DRINK ME!_ ’ Wait, erruh, a moment, if you please... _drink me?_ Drink me, drink me...No, that’s not… that _can’t be correct_ ... drink OF me… of my… Hrmm...”   He is maybe a little too drunk to be able to read properly, but he mumbles out phrases that _seem_ right until Arthur takes him by the elbow and leads him to the camp table to take a seat. Swanson collapses there, finally quelled, and Arthur receives a bevy of thankful looks from different directions in the camp.

 

John comes up behind Arthur, a tin cup of coffee steaming in his hand, and Arthur looks over at him with the same jolt of shock at his presence that he has been feeling every morning for days. John quirks his head in amusement at Swanson as the drunk man pitches forward into his open bible, and he takes a sip from his cup. “What’s this?”

 

“Reverend’s got a _sermon_ he’s plannin’, apparently. A real good one! _Real… legible_.”

 

Swanson sits back up with a dramatic sway, but he grips the table to prevent himself from falling completely over. “Mock _not_ the gospel of our Lord God! For He is loving, but He is also _vengeful_ !  His wrath on judgement day shall summon up the dead from the very _earth itself_ , to take revenge on the living for their sins! Fire will rain down from the sky, and _death himself_ rides through it all on a pale horse!”

 

“Is that so?” John supplies with amusement, before Arthur even has a chance to beat him to the punch.

 

“That is so, Mister Marston, that is _very so._ Just _pray_ you never live to see that day!”

 

“Oh, I’ve been prayin’ on it.”

 

“Love is all there is, Mister Marston.” Swanson’s mustache makes a distinctly miserable twitch, and Arthur frowns at him with the fear that he may begin to cry. The Reverend always cries when he is too deep in his cups, and at first Arthur found this pitiable, but after so many repeat incidents, nowadays he only finds it annoying. He is somewhat relieved when Swanson does not cry, but only flips the bible back a chunk of pages and begins to read again;

 

“A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another! A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity! Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of _electrifying--_ no, _exemplifying_ ... That it may _miniscule-- grapes-- unto the farters_ \-- oh no, I’ve got it wrong again--”

 

John only shakes his head and leans in close to Arthur to whisper, “He been at this all night?”

 

“Hmm.” Arthur nods, though he wonders how long he can take it when Swanson thumps the open bible with a confident laugh and a nod, very obviously sure that _this_ time, he has discovered the right verse.  

 

“Here we are, gentlemen, _here we are_ ! The _ultimate_ advice! _Honour all men! Love the brotherhood! Fear God! Honour the king_!”

 

John shifts in place, clearly puzzled. “That it?”

 

“That’s all.” Swanson responds smugly, finally satisfied, despite all odds.

 

Arthur does not think this last attempt is nearly as bad as all the others. In fact, he likes it so much that he says nothing about it at all. _Love the brotherhood, honor the king,_ these are credences Arthur has always lived by. A little bit of him hates how much he likes this ethos, and he scratches at his beard and looks away from Swanson, so he doesn’t have to look at a drunk and think he has been told something which is so true. It is only when he feels something sharp jabbing at him that he looks down again, and Swanson has leaned across the table to poke Arthur with a pencil. It is the thing he has clearly been using to make notations in his bible, because Arthur does not think the Reverend has enough pockets to keep track of more than a few things at once, much less the wits.

 

“For your troubles, my boy! _Take it_ , write the word of God down in that mysterious journal of yours, so you don’t forget it!”

 

Arthur takes the pencil, less because he is appeasing the Reverend and more because he wants to take something bothersome from him for no reason. “Thank you kindly, Reverend Swanson, but a journal’s no place for prayers. Journals? Now _there’s_ a book meant for sins.” He fiddles idly with the pencil, then stuffs it into his satchel.

 

It is only when he feels the familiar tingle of John’s eyes on his face that Arthur glances left at him, and he can see by John’s look that what he has just said is a mystery. Does John wonder about the journal he has given Arthur? Still blank at the bottom of his trunk? Or is it any of Arthur’s other journals which have puzzled him? Arthur cannot recall ever seeing John with any journal of his own, and figuring how John has watched him so closely for so many years, maybe he _has_ wondered, at least a time or two, about what it’s purpose might be.  

 

All of Arthur’s old journals have been filled with his regrets. But his hopes have been in them too, and his drawings. With a jolt he had not expected, Arthur suddenly thinks that his drawings _are_ a little like prayers. They are tiny moments of worship when he will admire a thing for it’s true self, stripped clean of any ego. And then, when a companion will fall, there is the cross next to their name that Arthur draws out of habit. He doesn’t know how else to mark someone’s passing, and a cross is easier to draw than spilling out a paragraph of sentences. Maybe a journal is a little like a book of prayers after all, though he does not speak this revelation aloud.

 

“Got somethin’ to say?” Arthur grunts at Marston, who shakes his head and looks away much too casually to have nothing on his mind. He takes a sip of his coffee. “Nope.” John replies, like his head has always been full of rocks. Arthur frowns at him until he feels his eyebrows go stiff.

 

John snorts in his cup when the Reverend begins to snore from where he has pitched over on the table. “You keep makin’ that face, Arthur, it’s gonna get stuck like that.”

 

“What face.” Arthur glares at him. It is a question, but it isn’t.

 

“How long you gonna stay mad at me? A week? A month?”

 

Arthur prompts too sharply--”A _year_?” John sucks his teeth at this sarcasm, but then he asks again, “How long?”

 

“... _awhile_.” Arthur settles with a dark frown, and he stalks away from John, but he knows he is losing the battle when he immediately goes to his trunk. He digs out his empty journal, and he finally puts it back into his satchel.

 

~

 

 

 

John is back home, and he is the same, but he is different too. Arthur watches him constantly, listening and following and lurking with half a heart of suspicion, and half a heart of hope he is still not quite ready to acknowledge.

 

“So where you been, boy?” Bill chastises John when they are riding back from a hunt with most of the gang one day. John is already ahead by several leagues, and Arthur is guarding the rear, but he could pick out John’s gravelly voice even through the roar of a waterfall.

 

“ _Here and there!_ ” John laughs, “Mostly _there_ . With a buncha idiots like you, Bill, to be perfectly honest. Simple men. No _book readers,_ if you understand my meaning.”

 

“Watch who you call an _idiot_ , golden boy! So _doted on_ even Dutch fell over himself welcomin’ you back? Where’s _my_ love? Huh?! I’d be hung by the neck until _dead_ if I was in your shoes!” Bill accuses, and John laughs again, and there is something very self-assured about the sound of it.  

 

“Guess I’m just lucky!”

 

“Lucky as king Midas! Except you don’t make gold when you touch a thing, you just make shit.”

 

“Then all you must be shit!”

 

“We was always shit.”

 

“Not to be rude, friend, but you’re losin’ me here. You happy to see me or not?”

 

“You know when a dog you ain’t trained up that well runs away, and you worry where he’s got off to? But he’s a pain as much as anything else, and when he’s back again you’re half sorry to see him, but you still think you missed the little bugger anyways?”

 

“First I’m a favored idiot, _then_ I’m king of shit. Now you callin' me a _dog?_ ”

 

“Callin’ you a bugger!”

 

Again, John is laughing. He laughs with a genuine tone, like he is somehow tremendously relieved. Like he has set something down unbearably heavy, after a very, very long time. Arthur watches him sway easy in his saddle, and the silhouette of John’s shoulders against the clouds is familiar enough to ache. Arthur wonders exactly what John has learned while he has been gone all this time, but his relief at finally being home again is palpable enough to taste.

 

John sighs the loud kind of sigh that heralds the end of a deep-bellied mirth, and he wipes his eyes one-handed as he rides. Dutch thunders up beside them and calls back to the group to launch into a gallop, but before they head off Arthur can hear John say with a voice that sounds more grown than it has ever sounded before;

 

“A good dog _always_ comes home, Bill.”

 

 

~

 

 

 

Evenings come gently in the springtime. The air is not so frigid anymore and there have been a line of soft nights where the wind whistles through the grass, and brings with it the scent of fresh flowers. Time heals most things, and Arthur thinks he is finally beginning to relax into the idea again that John is really home.

 

At first, Abigail forces John to sleep on the ground in his own tent, herself and little Jack taking the bed, but eventually John graduates to the lowly position of sleeping on her feet. He is doing everything he can to ingratiate himself back into her favor, but he is still more awkward with Jack than is comfortable to observe. He knows nothing about children, and even after Jack has begun to walk and talk, neither spends much time acknowledging the other. It is always Abigail to whom Jack turns in tears, and never, ever John, though this seems to suit John just fine. It is only when Arthur will bend down to scoop up the boy in distress that John gets a strange look in his eyes, like he has missed out on something special that he is resentful of. Arthur thinks on days like this of the _compromise_ he and John had made by the fire, of the other end of the bargain that John has said nothing so far about still claiming, and Arthur wonders if John has decided that he actually _doesn’t_ want Arthur after all. Maybe it is for the best.

 

It is the best thing for Abigail, after all, and it is the best thing for John too, if that is what he has actually decided. There are too many traps to fall into when one gets wrapped up in another man’s family business, and Arthur cannot bring himself to admit to John that he had very nearly replaced him in his absence. But Jack is not Arthur’s son, so he always puts him down again whenever John gets that look, and he feels it when John continues throughout the rest of the day to watch him close as a hawk. John watches Arthur like he always has, and Abigail watches John, and Arthur watches Abigail, and everyone watches everyone and no one says anything to anyone.

 

 

~

 

 

 

It is the kind of sweltering summer night that leaves sweat streaking down the spine, when Dutch rolls up his sleeves in an unusual show of casualty and suggests they read aloud together to distract from the humidity.

 

“Yes, that’s very good, I like that!” Hosea agrees as he folds his vest over one arm. “What shall it be tonight, Dutch? A little Milton, you suppose?”

 

“Not _him_!” Lenny chimes in, though nobody listens except Javier, who chucks him in the shoulder and hands him a piece of candied mint. They chew together and sweat quietly in the dirt by the fire.

 

Dutch shakes his head, and this rejection is on two counts, because he turns to John with a grandiose wave of the arm and suggests, “John, my boy, why don’t _you_ pick something tonight? Remember the good old days, when you used to read us all of Hosea’s stuffy poetry?”

 

John sits dumbstruck at the table with his spoon half raised from his bowl of venison stew, but before he gets a chance to answer, Hosea interjects, “I think _Arthur_ should read tonight.”

 

“Is that so?” Dutch murmurs, and Arthur lifts his head from where he has been sitting by the fire, turning over his empty journal in his hands. It is so hot he thinks the animosity he has heard in Dutch’s voice might be imagined. There is the lingering, anxious silence that always comes when someone has questioned Dutch about a thing, but finally Dutch nods at Hosea and takes a step back. This is unusual, but perhaps the heat has simply taken the fight out of all of them. Hosea nods right back, and turns to Arthur. “What do you think, Arthur? Shall we have some Longfellow? Or some Frost?”

 

“Too hot for poetry,” Arthur says, feeling sweat slick down the back of his neck. He feels stupid with it. “Couldn’t _understand_ the words, even if I tried.”

 

“Come now, Arthur, don’t _deprive_ us!” Dutch thunders, now obviously set on following through with Hosea’s decree. “Hosea would have you read to us! So, _read_ !” Arthur knows now it is by extension the same thing as one of Dutch’s commands, and so he sighs and runs a hand through his sweaty hair in defeat. “ _Fine_.” He reluctantly nods, “But no Longfellow.”

 

Hosea eases down onto a stool by the fire too. “So it’ll be Frost, then?”

 

Arthur shakes his head. “Mmm...Thoreau, if you don’t mind it.”

 

Dutch retrieves the green, canvas-bound book of poetry, and thrusts it into Arthur’s hands. Most of the camp trickles in, one by one, as Arthur sits up straighter and flips through the pages with the studious look of an ancient school marm. John is last to join them, and he sinks down on a log directly across from Arthur only when everyone else has settled.

 

“ _The Summer Rain_.” Arthur begins with the poem’s title, and he hears Hosea give a hum of approval. It is so hot the air feels like a dripping liquid, and a glance over the fire at John reveals he has stripped his clothes off down to a thin shirt which he has unbuttoned far enough down to look deliberately debauched. Arthur quickly looks away again, and refuses to feel unsettled by this unsightly length of his skin.

 

When he begins to read, at first his voice is low and thick with the heat. He leans over on his knees and holds the book in his palms, and he lets the familiar trance of reading take him over. It is not often he reads aloud anymore, Arthur prefers to listen more than to speak, but it is a comfort to engage in this old childhood activity, which for many years had been a constant. He can feel the firelight flickering across his face, and the crickets are thrumming in time with his heartbeat, and he whets his lips as he continues to read, then turns the page as the poem continues.

 

 _“And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,  
_ _And gently swells the wind to say all's well;_ _  
_ _The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,_  
_Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell._

 

 _I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;_ _  
_ _But see that globe come rolling down its stem,_ _  
_ _Now like a lonely planet there it floats,_  
_And now it sinks into my garment's hem.”_

 

Arthur hears John as he makes a small, frustrated noise, and between paragraphs he briefly lets his eyes flash up. John has sunk far enough forward that his sweat-damp hair has fallen on either side of his face, so that only Arthur can see his eyes, and he is staring across the flames at him with a particular intensity. At first, Arthur only thinks the look is angry, and his stomach makes a cold lurch when he tries to figure why exactly John might be mad at a poem. But then he sees that John is purposefully letting his gaze be noticed by Arthur, and he is looking at other parts of Arthur too, then lingering. The ice in Arthur’s stomach becomes a jolt of heat. He knows that look. He looks away before he lets it affect him.

 

 _“_ _Drip drip the trees for all the country round,_ _  
_ _And richness rare distills from every bough;_ _  
_ _The wind alone it is makes every sound,_  
_Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.”_

 

He can feel John’s eyes on him. Arthur has learned well enough to judge when John is deliberately staring, and in combination with the summer heat he thinks the pressure of this moment might break him. It seems absurd that John would choose _this_ moment to make a statement, surrounded by everyone, to communicate without words his continued sentiment to follow up on their specific _compromise_. And despite the weather, Arthur feels himself shiver. He sucks in a breath, his eyes glued to the open page of his book, but he finds when he tries that he cannot continue.

“Go on!” Lenny encourages him, sitting on the ground and looking for all the world like he hasn’t noticed the heat. Lenny likes poetry, but he likes the smart kind, and from the tone of his voice Arthur can tell he has not heard this one before and is trying to form his own opinion. Arthur clears his throat once, twice, his mouth is almost too dry to speak, but he finally continues;

 

 _“For shame the sun will never show himself,_ _  
_ _Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;”_

 

John’s staring is a fire larger than the one between them, and Arthur feels it on his face like a hand. His insides are full of wrestling squirrels, and he thinks he might be sick.

 

“ _My dripping locks--they would become an_ \-- _become--_ ” Another glance at John and Arthur freezes in place. John is looking at him _exactly_ as he had that rainy winter night, right before he had swallowed down Arthur’s length; red-faced, hungry, wild. Arthur snaps the book shut and sits up. “I’m sorry, I don’t feel well at the moment.”

Abigail sets Jack down and rolls towards him on her knees, a hand outstretched in worry. “Are you feverish? You’re soaked, maybe a little whiskey might do you some good? Can I help?”

He pushes her hand away and stands up on shaky legs, looking anywhere else than at her face, or at John’s. “No! _No_ , thank you, I suppose it’s this heat. I’ll go lie down awhile… Hosea, would you?” He passes the book over to his father, who gives him a worried look even as he accepts it with a nod. Dutch shakes his head in something between disapproval and being proven right, and Hosea picks up reading where Arthur left off. Arthur cuts through the circle and walks on shaky legs across the yard and over to his bed.

 

He feels John’s gaze track him, all the way back to the wagon.

 

~

 

 

 

The camp sleeps, but Arthur does not. He listens instead to the sound of John and Abigail in the tent next to his. After all this time, Arthur has figured that the three of them have finally returned to their normal way of doing things, or at least as close to normal as is possible, but tonight has given Arthur an impression which is decidedly different. Apparently, Abigail has finally welcomed John back into her bed, because he can hear her moaning, but it is muffled, as if John has his hand over her mouth. John does not say his name, that would be too cruel even for him, but the slow way he pulls pleasure out of Abigail makes Arthur think that he is still _meant_ to hear it. This is Arthur’s own private hell, because it is riddled with questions, and all he has ever wanted is to be secure in his place and in his honor. John is still obscene, time and distance have apparently done nothing to change this, even if he thinks John’s attitude as of late is more mature than it has ever been before.  
  
Abigail whimpers, but then so does John, and Arthur gives a shaky sigh in his cot. He doesn’t touch himself, and he tries to ignore what he is hearing. He tries to relax, and not for the first time he is afraid of what exactly it is he has gone and gotten himself into. He tries to assure himself that he will not let John make a fool of him, but he knows his own ways, especially from his lessons from the judgmental Mary Linton. Arthur is too easily strung along, and he is afraid by now that everyone knows it, just as well as they know what a terrible liar he makes. When John pants a sound which could, almost, _very nearly_ be the beginning of his name, Arthur rolls over in his cot, and he buries his head as deep as he can in his blankets.

 

It is a very, _very_ long night.

 

~

 

 

 

The summer is sloppy and hot, and it drags on and on. For a while it is so hot that Hosea insists they make camp by a swift but shallow river, riddled along the shore by flat rocks. On the worst days, the camp goes out and sits with their legs in the water, in any attempt to thwart the dangerous heat. Arthur cannot help but to pretend to shove John into the water on some of these days, creeping up behind him and startling him when he has gone up too close, until John finally reactively punches him and they get into a fight. It is a play fight, _mostly_ , but John’s hands are a little too savage to be wrestling entirely for fun, and in the end Charles breaks them apart and they stand on the shore eyeballing each other with nervy looks, drenched in sweat and panting too hard. It is a blessing when the summer heat breaks, because the first kiss of fall cools everything about everyone, weather and tempers included.

 

When the camp is in a more sane state of mind, Dutch decides it is far past time for another big heist. He declares that they will rob a train, which is a favorite of his, and for once Arthur is ready and willing. He thinks all he is good at anymore is being physically useful, and he certainly is useful in a robbery, and so when they pick a southwestern running track, and a rich passenger train is scheduled to pass through their area late at night, he is ready for the action and the money.

 

They suit up for the job at camp under cover of dark, and it is achingly familiar now that John is back again. Arthur dresses in black, and he slings his carbine and his double-barreled shotgun over his shoulders in a cross, and he feels powerful when he pulls his bandanna up over his face. John is the same, whip-thin and dangerous-looking in old denim, except he wears that red ribbon he likes around his throat as if it has been slashed open. He looks dangerous, and emanates an aura which seems otherworldly, half a practiced outlaw but also half something that seems _undead_ too. For all it’s worth, John does seem a little as if he has been resurrected. He has come back from the dead, whole and undamaged, but he is also different than how he was before. He is John, _plus extra_ . Arthur thinks, despite everything which has happened, that he is glad to have John back at his side because they have always protected each other in a fight, sometimes just as fiercely as pack animals. They will _always_ be brothers after all, despite everything, or anyone.

 

The crew rides hard, and the whistle of the steam engine cuts a sharp line through the dark night. Javier and Lenny are on point at the front of the train to divert the driver, and John and Arthur are in the middle to do the robbing. Micah and Bill are at the rear, to push up from the back of the train and to secure any threat they might encounter on that end of things. Dutch rides alongside with the Callendar brothers to help delegate obstacles and offer warnings, and when Arthur jumps from his saddle and lands on the train with John as a solid weight right behind him, he feels that some nights, by birthright, _belong_ to them. Some nights are meant to go like this, where his blood thunders in his ears, and he knows with every fiber of his being that he is alive.

 

John kicks open the first passenger car door and they storm down the aisle, John cocking his dual revolvers and yelling threats in that voice of his that sounds just like gravel. “Nobody move! This is a robbery! Valuables! Gold! Jewelry! Put em’ in the bag! Nobody need get hurt if you do as you’re told, so _come on, folks_! Let’s have it all!”

 

There is a wealthy heiress and an opera star aboard the train, and they collect a sack of jewels which leaves Arthur’s mouth watering. He can only think of the money, of how it will make his family’s lives easier, and of how they can finally fix to have little Jack get fitted for his first real pair of shoes. He misses it entirely when a footman comes up behind him, but John swings around and puts a bullet in his face, using Arthur’s shoulder to brace the shot. The crowd screams, and then a cocky banker tries to give them the business, but Arthur smashes the butt of his shotgun into his forehead until he stops complaining, and they steadily move on down the line and into the next car. And then on to the next.

 

The night air cools the sweat on their foreheads when they come through the last of the passengers and out onto an open cargo car. They are passing by a field full of derelict settlers, and Arthur only eyes their mix of ragged tents and half-burnt tepees for a moment before he is pulling out the sack of jewels and throwing a handful of them over the railing and into the grass. Bill and Micah burst through the car behind them just as Arthur does this, and Micah shouts out in dismay and rushes forward to snatch at his arm. “The _hell_ you think yer doin’, Morgan? Who said you got the right to redistribute a cut of _my property_?”

 

Again John’s gun swivels around on a dime, except this time he stops only when the flinty metal  of his gun barrel is resting gently against Micah’s right temple. He freezes like a coward on the spot. But then, like always, a grin creeps up on Micah real slow, and he sneers at them, “Ever the _fuckin’ do-gooders._ It’s a sad shtick, boys! The _tired old hound_ and the _lost puppy finally_ come home again? One day somebody’s gonna put you both down _! Maybe it’ll be me._ ”

 

Arthur grunts and shakes his head at John, laying a hand on him to ease off, and he cinches the bag of jewels tightly to his belt. “ _Nothin’s_ free.” He rumbles. “Everything’s got a cost. It’ll catch up to you, Micah, because you ain’t ever careful, and you don’t _respect_ people to speak of.”

 

John shoulders forward, showing Micah his own disrespect by ignoring him completely, especially now that Arthur has said as much. “What’ve you got, Bill?”

 

Bill is laden with treasures of his own, and they grin at each other just at the compartments on both ends of the train burst open, and armed guards pour out from both sides. The air erupts into a flurry of bullets and Arthur throws himself down under cover, and whistles sharply for his horse. John is right beside him, always a step behind, faithful as a shadow as he fires off shots that almost never miss their mark. He is a surgeon by now with those revolvers of his, taking out guards like he is the embodiment of a reaper, and Arthur is not worried when he leaps over the railing onto the back of his horse. “ _John_!” He shouts back up to the train, and John fearlessly jumps over the railing, and Arthur catches him over his stomach across his legs. John swings around him and grips onto Arthur’s back as more guards pour out of the train, and John is shouting after Bill as their party is split in half. They can see the Callendar brothers riding along the opposite side of the open car, and they are half done rescuing Micah and Bill when a man with a sniper rifle crawls up on the roof nearby. His first shot nearly takes Arthur’s arm off and he hears John suck in a breath of fear behind him, and then they are tearing out erratically to the left and off across the open plains. No shots follow them as they ride away, perhaps because it is too dark, or maybe if they are lucky it is because Micah has made himself a martyr, though this is highly doubtful. They will reconvene with the party when the danger has passed, and they will return home proudly bearing a small but mighty fortune.

 

Adrenaline follows them as Arthur rides hard, and he feels his shoulder soaked by blood down to the elbow. But John’s hands are gripping him from behind, firm and sure, and so they make it this time, when fate has mandated so many times before that surely, they should have both been killed. “You see it? _There_!” John shouts through the wind into Arthur’s ear, and he sees the abandoned homestead for the first time. It is a black silhouette of hope in the distance.

 

~

 

 

The homestead is not as decrepit as Arthur had expected, and they hitch up his horse around back and creep inside with their guns raised. When the house turns out to be empty, Arthur puts away his shotgun, and he goes about the business of finding a lamp. When he finds one and lights it, he and John are both taken aback by a dramatic blood stain on the kitchen floor. Whoever lived here was most likely very recently murdered, and by whatever means the body has been removed, though by the condition of the stain it could not have been entirely too long ago at all. The house is clean, and surprisingly un-pillaged, so maybe _someone_ still lives here. But there is spoiled fruit on the counter in a bowl, far enough rotted that maggots creep through the mealy apple flesh, and so whoever it is that is or was here seems intent on not returning any time soon. John holsters his guns too, and he forces Arthur to have a seat on the kitchen table to take a look at his arm.

 

When Arthur’s shirt is off and John has used the sleeve to wipe the wound clean, John laughs and turns to hunt for a bit of cloth to bind it. The gunshot is only a knick, and it bled like wounds sometimes do only because adrenaline makes the heart pound blood faster and thinner than it should for that length of time. Arthur will be just fine. They both try to calm down from the jittery, tingling high of the robbery, though neither of them is entirely capable of it at the present moment.

 

John ties up Arthur’s arm with a strip of bed linen he discovered in a wardrobe, and when it is done he doesn’t push off again, but only presses a little closer, his eyes down and his hand still lingering on Arthur’s bandage. He stands there long enough for his intentions to become obvious, and he presses one of his thighs up between Arthur’s legs where he has leaned up on the lip of the table. It is a steady, insistent pressure. Arthur’s heart is still a wild bird caught in his chest.

 

“...Now?” the question is too low, and John nods once, the down-turned arc of his mouth looking distinctly miserable.

 

“ _Now_.”

 

“Thought maybe you’d forgotten.” Arthur says quietly, carefully, gripping the edge of the wood. “Your compromise. Thought maybe you... changed your mind.”

 

John’s only response is to lay a hand on Arthur’s cock through his pants and squeeze him, though his eyes still stay cast down at his bandage. Arthur laughs a laugh that is half breathless, and he leans harder against the table. “...Guess you didn’t.”

 

“God _damn you, Arthur Morgan_ .” John mutters under his breath, mostly bitter, but it is still a little sad too. “ _Forgetting’s_ the whole problem. I _can’t_.”

 

“You _can_ ,” Arthur rumbles, afraid when he only hears the affection in his voice, but still knowing he has made a promise that he intends to keep. Arthur always keeps his promises, even when they are altogether stupid. And he has committed this sin enough times already that one more time could not possibly make this situation any worse than it is. He touches John’s chin to pull his face up, and his skin through the bristle is still chilly, touched even now by the rush of the wind as they rode fast through the night, then beyond it, on into freedom and the relative safety of this place. Nobody knows where they are, or what they are doing here.

 

Confidence is stripped from Arthur in a single moment, when John reaches up to wrench their mouths together and kisses him like he is possessed. They have kissed before, briefly and passionate enough, but never like this. It is all roughness and sharp edges, and soon enough Arthur’s lips are smarting from John’s bristles tearing into the sensitive skin. This is what he remembers, _this_ John, with claws and with fangs, and so he is very surprised when John gentles the kiss unexpectedly after a few minutes, and then he grips Arthur’s neck to keep him close. He kisses Arthur with a purpose, deep and slick and hot along the rows of his molars. John licks his teeth like he wants Arthur to give him something, but when Arthur finally lets himself groan into the kiss and tries to put his hands on John, this only seems to make a problem, because John pulls back with an angry look. He barks, “ _Put your hands on the table._ ”

 

This statement sends a bolt down Arthur’s stomach and straight to his cock, though it is half-laced with fear too. His mouth is suddenly drying up, and in his mind he is back in his cot again, listening to John fuck Abigail with a _particular_ intent. A hand over her mouth. Anger. Control. Resentment. Desire. Arthur is reticent again, and his face must show it, because John glowers and forcefully turns him around. Arthur’s palms lean heavily on the wood and John kicks his feet apart, and he mutters into Arthur’s naked shoulder with the scrape of his teeth, “Said _I’d_ decide when and where, Arthur. We made a deal, remember? Payment _due_ . Debtors _pay up_. Don’t say after all of it you’re afraid.”

 

Arthur’s lips part a little as he leans on his arms, and he stares at the grain of the table. The quiet stretches until it becomes painfully obvious that the answer is _yes_ . He _is_ afraid. Whatever this makes John feel is impossible to know, though some part of it must be frustration, because Arthur feels it in a hot gust on his naked back when John huffs his breath out, then reaches around to unbuckle Arthur’s gun belt. He sets it with a heavy ‘ _clunk_ ’ on the table next to them. “Don’t move.” He commands again when he returns to Arthur’s pants, and Arthur is only sure he is too guilty for the crimes of his past to do anything other than obey. He gasps when John finally yanks his pants down around his thighs, and he finally feels the cool night air on his heated skin. Behind him, John sinks to his knees, and his hands slip down Arthur’s thighs as he goes down. “You been kissed here before?”

 

Arthur jerks his head back and forth, but only after a great effort. _No, he hasn’t,_ he thinks irrationally _, but who has?_ Unfortunately, his tongue is far too gummed up at the moment to function. John does not immediately go to task, somehow doubly beyond Arthur’s sexual capacity in only half the time, but his mouth is still hot when he touches his lips to the back of Arthur’s thighs, brushing upwards with a gentleness that for John is unusually sensitive. It is puzzling as it is overwhelming, though it quickly becomes _mostly_ overwhelming when his hand circles around to take Arthur’s half-hard length in his grip. He strokes it slowly, then laps his tongue up the back of one leg with a flat, hot stroke, and Arthur shudders and sweats over his tenuous grip on the table.

 

“Dreamed about this, while I was gone.” John sighs into Arthur’s skin, then bites Arthur’s leg at the place where his leg meets his buttock. Arthur jerks against him, but John soothes over the bite mark with another lingering swipe of the flat of his tongue. “Wanted you. Always wanted you. _I always want you, Arthur_.”

 

“ _Christ alive_ , shut your mouth,” Arthur grates, even though his legs have traitorously begun to tremble, despite all his best efforts. He can feel himself begin to drip in John’s hand as he expands fully to hardness, and he feels trapped from where his pants still partially bind his legs together at the knee. He does not think he has ever felt this weak in his entire life. “ _Told you before_ , Marston, don’t make it worse than it is.”

 

“Don’t think about that right now,” is all John says, before he swipes his tongue up between Arthur’s cheeks, and brushes across the pucker of his ass. Immediately Arthur bulks against the table and makes a sound like he has been shot, and half-twists to push John away, but this only seems to makes things worse. John grips his hips with both hands and spreads him apart, then sucks hard on the pucker he finds there. The smell of sweat is pungent. This sensation is beyond knowing, both delectable and horrifying, and Arthur cuts loose a sound close to pain because it is too intense to fully be desire, and he clenches his teeth and tries to keep his knees steady when all he wants to do is let them buckle. He thinks he is too old by now to be this hard this fast, but John always _has_ had that effect.  

 

Why does this keep happening? Arthur wonders this question with awe. He keeps falling, again and again, into traps made for him by people who have too much control over his life. Maybe it is better to not love anything or anyone, because that way Arthur can still maintain his autonomy, and nothing about this situation allows Arthur to truly be himself. He is afraid to accept this worship, because he wants it too badly to be respectable, and he wants John, _specifically_ , to give it to him. So when John’s tongue pushes inside, Arthur’s whimper finally turns into a snarl, and he begins to push back against the hot swipe of that tongue with a purpose. He thinks of John saving his life in the train car with his revolver braced on his shoulder for support, and he thinks that the two of them together could conquer the world if they wanted. That they could accomplish anything, because Arthur loves John, and that the scorch of this devotion might very well also mean death for the both of them. He remembers to try to love more mildly, but at the moment he is failing at that endeavor completely.  

 

John pulls off with a savage noise of satisfaction, and presses into Arthur’s hip with a palm until he turns around. The jut of Arthur’s cock is at face level when he shakily turns forward, and without a word John sucks him down. The table is sharp to the point of pain when Arthur leans back into it, and he lets himself have what he wants and winds his fingers into John’s long, greasy hair. This is far too animalistic to maintain any pretense of civility, and Arthur thinks he is quickly losing the strand of his own logic, faster even than he had the night they had fucked in his tent in the rain. This is raw and wild as the throb of adrenaline while taking a big score, and he cannot be sure if the power behind the whole thing is coming from John, or from Arthur himself. He only pulls on John’s hair, hard at first, then harder, until John makes appreciative noises that vibrate down his length, and he pushes two fingers between Arthur’s thick legs and gently eases them inside him.

 

It does not take a scholar to guess John’s intentions. This is a change, and even though the sensation is strange and unwelcome at first, Arthur thinks that if it is for John, he can manage things somehow. Or at least, this is what he says to himself, _over and over and over_ , even as his knuckles go white as he wrenches at John’s hair. This only makes John suck harder, until Arthur is right up on the edge, but then John pulls back with a gasp and a viscous string of spit, and with a complaint. “ _Jesus_ , you’re strong!” John gasps, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I forgot.”

 

Arthur thinks he might explode. “ _Just get on with it,_ ” he growls, and John smiles at him for the first time that night. But it is self-assured and cocky, and John only leans back on his heels and brags, “so you _do_ _like_ it.” This is both cruel and annoying, so Arthur reaches down and uses his anger to haul John back up to his feet. Then he throws him physically across the room, until his back hits the ladder to the loft. It takes a second for Arthur to kick out of his pants and boots, and then he follows John and is on him with a purpose, helping him to hastily strip off all of his clothes. John laughs incredulously, but he is already rock hard, and his hands are shaky too, just the same as Arthur’s. Together they peel him out of his shirt, and then his boots, and then his pants. Nobody misses them when they fall with a flop to the floor.

 

The room is dark except for the soft gold glow of the lamp, and the feel of John’s naked skin on his own is a revelation to Arthur as much as it is a much treasured memory. This is paradise. Just this. Just John, wily and hairy and wily and wiry, all teeth and dirty hair and a face that’s wind-chapped and sunburned, and glazed over by lust. Arthur pushes him up against the ladder until John leans back and wraps his legs around Arthur’s hips, and they kiss that same variety of bruising, flesh-ripping kiss as Arthur ruts up against John’s ass. John apparently has checked all his reservations at the table, which by now should not be so surprising, but he demonstrates how much larger a monster he still is one more time when he drops his legs down again until Arthur’s length is pressed between his cheeks. He rolls his hardness up between the sandwich of their stomachs, and he drags forward along the length of his dick with his hips, until Arthur pops, right there. He comes hard, sweating and grinding his forehead into John’s neck, and it is so intense that it is only after he is finished that he realizes he has wound his arms around John’s neck in a violent embrace.

 

John feels almost light, in Arthur’s grip. His weight is solid, but manageable. He has always been too thin. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that John has always been _hungry_ , Arthur thinks, and he lets himself stroke John’s hair like he has seen Dutch doing before, because he does not think that any show of affection by now could make this situation any worse. John is shaking, and he presses his mouth into Arthur’s neck, biting at his throat with a tenderness that is more painful than any teeth could really be. “ _I want it_ .” He begs against Arthur’s wet skin, and Arthur thinks it is a wonder he still _asks_ , every time, when John could always get away with just taking, if that’s what he preferred. They are thieves, after all, and by now Arthur has seen John steal all manner of things, things which he deserved far less than this. His voice is raw as it has ever been. “Say I can have it. _Say it’s alright_ , Arthur, _please_.”

 

“Thought you said you was _done_ with _askin’_ . Ain’t you the one who _tells_ , tonight?”

 

Maybe John could take what he wants, Arthur is sure he would allow it, but the shadow of their past still lingers there. It is _right there_ , stuck between their sweaty limbs, and it is in the way John hides his face in Arthur’s neck and won’t meet his eyes. He will always look up to Arthur, wait to jump until he says jump, and he may still hate it in future but this is the way things have always been. Arthur breaks a little in that moment, because it means that despite everything, John has not entirely lost his righteous heart. He is still kindest deep down, he still has the capacity to make the gentler choices, and the shadow of the good man Arthur has always seen in him has not been slaughtered by the events of the last few months. One day, John might even make a fine enough American hero, even if it is not this day, and Arthur forgives him for everything all at once, if not just the littlest bit.

 

“ _Easy now_ , _easy_ ,” Arthur murmurs, and kisses the shell of John’s ear. It is a little like their first time, he thinks with both love and fear, all over again. “ _You can have it,_ boy, but just for tonight.”

 

 

When they have climbed up into the loft, there is still a bed there, and fortunately nobody has been murdered in it. It is made of corn husks underneath the rough linen and the blanket is shredded, but it is sufficient enough for their purpose.

 

It is even darker up here, but the lamp continues to glow doggedly gold on the table below, and John’s skin is kissed along his right shoulder with the deep, soft color of an ember which has nearly died. John pushes Arthur back, and his hands are gentle, no trace of his claws obvious anymore in the motion. He seems to have decided not to take what he wants as fast and impatiently as he has always done in the past, and again Arthur wonders at what must have happened to him the year he has been gone.

 

This is a kind of worship. Arthur knows it. Maybe even a kind of hero worship. He despises worship of any kind, because he has never thought himself worthy of it, but Arthur has made a promise to let John do what he likes, and he recollects John’s statement that this would be his personal way of saying his own goodbyes. If that is what it is, then Arthur will let him have what he wants, because despite saying that all of this between them is already done with, after tonight it must truly be over. They are so close to the edge of regularity again, just a breath away from normal life, but this flame has not yet been extinguished. It lingers, because there is still a little bit yet left to burn. The burn is low like the lamp, muted and dark, but the fuel burns hotter the closer to death that it gets. Arthur rests his arms above his head and lets John pull up one of his knees over his shoulder, and he tries not to flinch when John pushes a finger back inside.

 

“Hurts?” John murmurs into Arthur’s knee, his bristles are ticklish against his skin, and Arthur shakes his head as passively as he can. “ _S’fine._ ”

 

This lie is detectable even in the dark, and John pulls out and spits into his palm. He spits again, and a third time, then he pushes back in, thrice as slick as before. It is uncomfortable, but grows less intense over time, and when John pushes in a second finger and finds a spot which is surprisingly good, Arthur jerks against him and groans. He can practically feel John’s grin in the air, then he _physically_ feels it when John presses a kiss into his leg. “Don’t hurt _now_ , do it, Morgan?” John brags in a low, cocky voice, and it is somehow beyond annoying.   

 

“You know, you have _always_ been one _smug son of a bitch_.” Arthur announces this obvious fact to the roof, but then his breath hitches again when John pushes down once more on that same sweet spot. He apparently likes the sound this produces, because he does it again, and then again until Arthur is cursing his name and struggling up on his elbows as his cock prickles back to life. Even slow-moving John is still a demon, disguised only as a wiry man.

 

Several more times, John spits into the palm of his hand, and he scrapes what he can of Arthur’s slick off the backs of his thighs. He coats himself in it and pushes forward, and Arthur grits his teeth and bears it because he believes in promises, and following through with what a man says, but it doesn’t stop him from shivering when John hilts himself and pulls Arthur’s leg up close, flush against the wet flesh of his chest. He leans forward until his dark hair falls in clumps around his face, and even in the gold-gilt shadows, John’s expression is both pained and reverent.

 

“ _Never_ shoulda left, that night,” John murmurs, losing himself in the memory, in the moment, in the two of them. “ _Fuck_ , Arthur, you feel good. I shoulda stayed. _Sorry I ever left_ ... _so sorry_...”

 

“ _Sorry’s_ for _later_ ,” Arthur grits, and yanks on John’s shoulder with his calf. It was almost kinder when John fucked fast and hard. Arthur hates himself, but not this much, and he wants to save his mourning about all of this for when he can actually channel it properly, _alone_. Fortunately John takes this to heart because he shuts up for a while, but he still fucks slower than Arthur has ever thought he was even capable.

 

John seems to be making a point, to move at a pace which is the exact opposite of what he has offered before. He moves so slow that Arthur thinks he wants to punch him, or at the very least to roll him over and fuck him in his own way. But he stays still and gives John what he needs, though it is torturous enough to make him ache like he hasn’t since he was young. Perhaps it is his celibate lifestyle which has made him feel all of this, having pent up a significant amount of want until right now, but it still leaves Arthur rolling his head back in surprise at his desire when John takes his length in hand and strokes it firm and slow along with the languorous motion of his hips. The slow stoking of this molten ember is too painful to take. Arthur slams his fist on the ground, harder than he means. John pauses above him.

 

“You want it?” He breathes in the dark. He is all heat, like he had been back in the summer. John has always been the very living shape of summertime. This must be what he had imagined when he stared at Arthur like a monster by the fire, while Arthur read a poem about the summer rain.

 

“ _Come on,_ ” Arthur is almost angry with lust, “Just _get on_ with this business already, John, so we can _go home_.”

 

“You _do_ _want_ it.” John breathes again in the dark, but this time with quiet awe. But his voice firms up again almost at once. “ _Tell me_ you want it. Do you?”  He pulls out most of the way, but not fully, and he fucks him shallow, just the head, again agonizingly slow. Arthur tears the blanket off the bed and slams his skull up and down where he lies prostrate, stuck halfway between passion and pride. But then he thinks that he hates himself enough that it shouldn’t matter if he gives up this much, so he groans and he grits his teeth and he nods stiffly, though he only does it once.

 

“ _I do_.”

 

It is enough.

 

John thrusts in hard, all the way to the hilt, and they are both groaning and pressing into each other too close. For a while John seems lost again, and he reaches down to kiss Arthur, and to tangle long fingers into his hair. When John pushes Arthur’s leg over, he follows the motion onto his stomach, and then John takes him from behind. This time he is not slow anymore, but very devoted to the action, and he pushes and pulls with unchecked strength until he leans over and their bodies are flush, and he wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck. Arthur has always liked John holding on to him from behind, but this takes on an entirely new meaning, and he is surprised by how loud he moans when John takes him just like that, hard and quick and thoughtless. It is rougher than feels good, strictly speaking, but John is hitting that inside place that Arthur was surprised to find he likes even this much, and when John’s arms tighten around his neck and his breath comes in ragged gasps, they both draw up against a sharp and sudden wall. Arthur is not sure how his passion has moved him so far forward this fast, but when he comes a second time it takes him by surprise, and his whole body shakes with it. Arthur groans too deep, with a sound that is almost wretched as it rips out of him, and he grinds his forehead into the musty bed as he spills himself across the rough sheet. John is only a second behind him, having apparently waited with great care for this moment, and when he comes inside, it is as strange a sensation as anything else about this entire delirious night. It is the giddy rush of wind on horseback, and the power of a stolen bag of jewels. It is confidence and physicality, and it is just a little loneliness, and it is the death of the last sputter of a fire too. A small death, but it is still a _dying out,_ all the same. Too fast, but a long time coming.

 

When it is finally done with, they both lie on their backs to let the sweat cool off. It takes a while to recover, and Arthur feels loose and boneless as he ever has. “Gonna run off this time?” He accuses sleepily, still trying to get in one last dig, but John doesn’t rise to the bait and only chuckles.

 

“Was gonna ask _you_ that same question.”  

 

“Cain’t.” Arthur sighs. “Couldn’t run if I wanted. It always like that?”

 

John shakes his head, his hair wilder than ever, clumps sticking to his face and in every which direction. His chest gleams with sweat. “ _No_ ,” he assures with a deliberate certainty. “It is _not_.”

“...Where you _been_ , John?”  The question cuts back to the quick, a question Arthur couldn’t ask with any real sincerity before, because up until now he has been too angry to do it. Now, he is only exhausted. John huffs, but he doesn’t get mad, and he looks out over the empty room for a while.

 

“Figurin’ things out. Had my own gang for a bit, until some goddamn filthy O’Driscoll bastards killed em’ all off. Well, _mostly_.”

 

“Thought you was dead. Damn O’Driscolls brought us your hat. _Bloody_. A hole shot right through it.”

 

John looks like a puzzle piece has been snapped back into place and he says with vitriol, “ _Knew_ those _sons of bitches_ were the ones what took it! Had a nasty run-in with them boys awhile back, in a gorge in South Dakota.” But then the reality of this fact sets in, and he hangs his head and looks down with regret. “...I didn’t know about that. I’m sorry, Arthur. Must’ve been hell.”

 

Arthur rolls away and pretends to stretch, even though the knick in his shoulder suffers for it. “Shouldn’t be _me_ you apologize to.”

 

“It should be.” John follows up more quietly. “But you sure ain’t the only one.”

 

After a while, when he has dried off sufficiently, John climbs down the ladder and peels the bag of stolen jewels off of Arthur’s gun belt. He carries it back up with the lamp and sits naked next to Arthur in the bed, and he examines the integrity of the pieces by holding the gems up close to the light.

 

“Not _chicken eggs,_ John,” Arthur murmurs sleepily, watching John playing with their take in the soft orange glow. “No jewel gonna grow you a ruby rooster inside it.”

 

“ _That’d_ be the day! Sure would solve our cash flow problem though, wouldn’t it? Imagine Dutch wearin’ his very own _crown_.”

 

Arthur can picture this very clearly indeed, and it is what he dreams about when he slips beneath the weighty veil of sleep. When he wakes again at first light, stiff and prickly with sweat, he sits up and sloughs off the dream of all of them dressed in furs and fine jewelry, each member of the gang in royal repose. When he looks over, John is still sleeping without any blanket, but his black hair has fanned out over the rough linen, and all around him are the shimmering faces of scattered jewels. Arthur looks at him awhile, just like that, then he quietly retrieves his satchel, and he takes out Reverend Swanson’s pencil, and his empty journal. _Finally_ , after long last, Arthur puts the pencil to a blank page of paper, and he begins to draw. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright friends, you asked for it and I delivered it unto you! Welcome to this only sort of late and definitely un-betaed porny Valentines Day Gift! I tried extra hard to make this one a little filthier, but I wrote it in a single day and subsequently it is more out of character than I would technically prefer, but the gods have spoken and somebody needed to lick Arthur's asshole, because that man deserves it more than the Heisman Trophy. This chapter is ~fully~ HORNY ON MAIN. Because of this, the plot has yet again been pushed back, so maybe it might be nnnnnnineeee chapters instead of only eight? But I consider this sacrifice worth it. Time will tell, I guess! Anyway, now that this filthy fucking is out of the way, I can diligently return once more to the Blackwater disaster, where I pretend like this story is even remotely canon anymore. You're welcome, you wonderful filthy cowboys! Eat ass, rob trains, be free!!
> 
> This story is only for my personal amusement and it is not as thematically tidy as I would like, but I hope everyone continues to enjoy it to the end! Thank you so much again for all your kind comments, and the kudos this story has received thus far. Comments fuel my power because it lets me know somebody gives a shit I'm even doing this self indulgent thing, so if you've got some thoughts lets chat about it! See you on the other side of Blackwater! FUCK YOU, BLACKWATER, and GOODNIGHT!


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

John moves through shimmering patches of daylight. They are hunting in the brisk fall afternoon, in a stretch of wilderness where the turning, narrow trees have grown close together. It has been a very wet season, and long and hot to boot, and even now the autumn woodland is still alive with motion and drama. The plants shake with the breath of the wind, with living creatures and semitransparent leaves whose faces slide against one another in hues of green and yellow.  Birds scatter into flight as they trump through the underbrush, and late season flowers burst up through the mossy forest floor to scatter the green carpet with explosions of white and orange and blue. They are surrounded by tall, umber tree trunks which seem to reach up forever,  _ up and up and up,  _ towards heaven, until the branches crisscross in a canopy of shifting gold. 

 

Arthur tries to move with a measure of quiet, but it is really John who has the fox in his sights. The varmint rifle is pulled up close to his jaw as he levels his shot. John has  _ always _ had a fixed sort of look on his face when he’s taking aim; one that Arthur discovered long ago he very much admires. They crouch down, half-behind an ancient boulder. John sucks in his breath for the moment of pristine tension before the bullet flies, and between his heartbeats everything goes gorgeously still. 

 

Arthur tastes the pause. He feels it, and he sees it. He recalls sitting on his skittish Appaloosa on the crest of the hill with Dutch and Hosea overlooking the homesteaders gallows, tasting  _ that _ moment, too. The moment before Dutch took the shot that cut John free. He thinks about how such a moment makes every beat of the heart sound riotous. Arthur holds his breath inside his chest until it makes him tremble. The silver fox’s tail flicks in the grass. No moment like the one where a man attempts to halt the functions of his body can better highlight the fragility of everything; of how completely human they all are, the moment before death. The heart just keeps on beating, right up until the second it doesn’t. 

 

John takes the shot. The sound of it echoes across time. It snaps the neck of the silver fox, but it snaps the rope around John’s neck too. It is an O’Driscoll’s bullet blowing John’s hat off his head, and it is the killing shot that took the woman in the bearskin cloak the winter Arthur nearly drowned himself in a bottle. It is John’s first target struck down the day Dutch put a revolver in his hand, and it is every shot that has ever come before that one. And it will be every shot in future as well. It is every duel, every act of restitution, and every act of senselessness and revenge still ahead of them, until they are all of them dead. Each and every one. The bullet lives eternal. 

 

“Way of the gun!” John Marston grins in the shifting afternoon light after he has dropped the fox. The grin is big, and broad, and extra  _ self-congratulatory _ as he sits up straight against the boulder. He never misses his shots these days. Not that he had particularly often missed them before. Arthur rolls his eyes. 

 

“How many foxes you shot in your life, John?”

 

John shrugs, and they stand up with the crunch of foliage. “Dunno, I reckon… four hundred? Mayhap five hundred?” 

 

“Then what makes you think  _ one more’s  _ gonna somehow change your reputation? You think you’re some kinda sharp shootin’  _ legend _ now? And anyhow, it’s only me what saw it happen.”

 

“It was a _ good shot _ , Arthur! Jesus, you’re wound so tight sometimes I think you could shit a diamond if you wanted!” John complains, face falling in genuine disappointment. Arthur grins humorlessly back at him with more than a little sarcasm;

 

“You should be so lucky.” 

  
  
  


They go together to have a look at the beast. It is beautiful, its grey fur catching highlights from the shifting afternoon sun, until the topmost crest of it’s fluffy pelt glows a soft silver. It is in perfect condition, shot precisely through the top of the spinal column just below the skull, and when Arthur looks ahead by a few leagues he can see that John’s bullet has also coincidentally taken out a Partridge. He glances sideways at John, who has gone back to looking smug. He thinks again about it, until he concludes that the Partridge was, perhaps...  _ not _ just coincidence. He gives a sour frown, and finally concedes the point. “Alright… It was a good shot.”

 

_ “Thank  _ you _. _ ” John gathers the fox up, and slings it over his shoulder. Arthur collects the bird too, ties it to his belt, and then they mount up and head home together. 

  
  
  
  


It is the end of a long, blue day. 

 

“...Think she’ll like it?” John questions from his saddle as they take a covered trail. It is dense with cottonwood trees. The flowering season is long over, but a few seed pods have held on stubbornly past their prime, and with the cold at night dropping wind cover away from the surrounding greenery, they have finally begun to shake apart. Now, the air drifts with lazy puffs of white cottonseed. 

 

Arthur regards John’s easy body language in his saddle, and thinks that he will draw John later this evening, just like this; comfortable and open, with half a smile on his face as his black hair grows progressively more stuck with bits of white fluff. His horse sneezes and shakes it’s huge head. The dander swirls around them. 

 

“...I imagine Abigail will be quite pleased.” Arthur rumbles, amused. 

 

“She’s just so _ godawful difficult _ to read! I can’t never tell if I’ve made her mad or glad! How’s a simple feller like me supposed to understand a complicated woman like her? How’d  _ you _ do it?  _ It’s impossible _ .”

 

“Suppose it just takes practice.” Arthur grins. Inside, he’s also mad and glad with John, and it has taken plenty of time enough by himself to understand that. He does not begrudge Abigail the feeling.

 

“ _ Practice _ !” John huffs with disdain. “Never liked it.” 

 

Arthur’s laugh becomes a wry amusement, and he urges his horse into a canter. When he pushes past John up the path, a gust of cool wind whistles low through the brush, kicking up the cottonwood and sending it wafting up on a lively current. “That’s why you’re always  _ losin’ _ , Marston! Cain’t be a prodigy  _ all _ the time!” He shouts without looking back.

 

“Lose what?” John rises easily to the challenge. He usually does, this time being no different, and he launches into the friendly race without needing much prompting at all. “I’ll show you what’s  _ what _ , you rotten old stump! You ready to lose _ right now? _ ” 

  
  


It is only half a real race, and they ride together for the fun of it through the pleasant weather, if just to feel the horses flex. They have not had a real race since John has returned, and Arthur treats him mostly with a careful kindness these days. He is a little afraid not to. Instead, he focuses on the  _ ‘whush’  _ of parted grass as their horses push through dried fields of ochre, and he focuses on the distinct cadence of John’s breath as he pays attention to his horsemanship. Arthur listens to all the ways John’s voice hitches in his throat as his Warmblood leaps and skips around, jostling him in the saddle. Arthur only listens as they ride, not bothering to fill up the golden space with empty conversation that would only distract from the loveliness of the late afternoon. He has always liked to listen. John doesn’t push him on it. 

  
  
  


Jack is making a flower crown in the tall grass by the hitching post when they arrive back at camp, and he looks up and grins at his uncle Arthur, though the look dips into shyness when he regards his father. He says nothing, but his little hands continue to wind his grubby wildflowers together in a ring, and Arthur pats his head with a fond parental air as they go past. 

  
  


All turns out well enough in the end when Abigail declares she loves the fox pelt. She laughs and throws her arms around John’s neck when she sees how fine it is, how soft and silver, and he smiles a bemused, delighted sort of smile which is more a twitch in the corner of his mouth than it is a genuine expression. But it is still more than Arthur has seen on his face concerning his family in a millenia, and so in that regard it is as bright as the sun. With John’s promise of a new fur cloak for Abigail in the coming winter, the three of them are all sure she will look very fine indeed. When they are all done vocally agreeing upon this point, she turns and kisses Arthur directly on the mouth in thanks, and Arthur jerks back and gives John a tight frown. But John only leans up against the supply wagon, arms folded easy-like, legs limber, and he just grins in return.

 

 

 

~

  
  
  
  


 

“You’re looking very well these days, I think!” 

 

Hosea comes up one morning behind Arthur while he is shaving by his wagon, and Arthur flicks the soap off his razor and pats his chin dry, all the while looking at Hosea’s reflection in his mirror, rimmed by clouds and blue sky. 

 

“Quite well, Hosea. Quite well.” 

 

“That’s a relief! Some things…? Well,  _ some _ things can...  _ scramble _ a man’s mind up if they drag on too long. But you’ve certainly got a head on your shoulders, so I don’t need to worry about you, Arthur, now do I?” 

 

Arthur’s hands slow their patting, and eventually he puts his cloth down with careful purpose. He thinks on Hosea’s tone, hearing how chosen it is, how  _ intentional _ . Finally, he turns around to face his father for real. “You got a certain thing in particular on your mind?”

 

“Oh, yes, Arthur, I absolutely have a particular thing on my mind.“ Hosea nods, and Arthur stands up straighter, laced with nervy curiosity. “I want to go back to  _ Blackwater _ .” 

 

“-- _ Blackwater _ ?” Arthur spits the word with incredulity, and he knows now that Hosea was only testing his amenity to this idea. He shakes his head immediately.  “Hosea, please…” he is sick to death of that place. 

 

“Now hear me out, dear boy! Hear me out! I’m not askin’ for any trouble! Certainly not with any O’Driscolls! And my aim isn’t to….  _ force a brotherly peace _ … if you take my meaning.” 

 

Arthur regards Hosea with a shade of suspicion, wondering how close Hosea will let this conversation brush up against the unspoken troubles between his sons over the last two years. Not heard by all, but certainly  _ felt _ . He and John have both tried to mend their situation, but things have still not yet entirely settled.  “Get to the point, if you please.” 

 

“Why,  _ money _ , Arthur. And a little friendly competition! Dutch and Micah have a bit of business brewing with a riverboat captain in town from when we went last to fetch dear John back, and I aim to do them one better. Got some intelligence from a teller at the Blackwater bank.  _ Money’s _ the point, Arthur, what else?” 

 

Arthur laughs in sharp relief, and he shakes his head.  _ Money _ . Of course. “...Alright, money. If it’s Micah that’s involved, I imagine the plan’ll go south more quickly’n not. Always  _ does _ . Why not just put a stop to it?”

 

“Come now,  what’s better than a little  _ contest _ of  _ wits _ ? Certainly the two of us are more than enough of a match for the likes of  _ Micah Bell _ !? And old Dutch! Well, in this situation, he’s...? Just don’t worry about him. He’s a  _ caveat _ . An extra layer in the game! And  _ you’ve _ been doin’ very fine as of late, Arthur, very fine indeed...” Hosea trais off with a thoughtful look, actually going so far as to stroke his bristly chin. His eyes are alive, and sparkling with intelligence. “...So. Are you up to the challenge, or  _ no _ ?” 

 

_ So be it _ , Arthur thinks.  _ The Gentleman Thief rides again _ . After all, he has always adored this version of Hosea. 

 

“...Alright then, go ahead.” Arthur concedes with a ducked head and a half grin. “ What’ve you got brewin’, you old wizard?” 

 

Hosea doesn’t smile so much as he villainously stretches his lips apart, and he waves Arthur in close. “A big bank like that, hoarding all that gold and  _ no _ loans granted to the poor settlers what  _ built _ Blackwater from the ground up? That doesn’t seem fair  _ at all, _ my boy, now does it?”

 

Arthur wraps a conspiratorial arm around Hosea’s shoulder and leans in too. “No, I imagine it does  _ not _ . But you know what they say about life, Hosea, don’t you? Ain’t _ nothin’  _ fair.” he concurs with a grin.

  
  


He does not yet know the half of it. 

  
  
  


 

~

  
  
  


 

Through the smoke, Arthur can hear Lenny crying. He’s shuffling forward, and Arthur can see the shape of his approach, laden with something heavy. Gunshots are still firing off in the distance, and Arthur runs down the street to meet him, his own bloody hands flying out to steady against what Lenny carries. They halt in the middle of the carnage of the street. The woman’s dress is soaked all in red about the midsection, but it is her face that is the real terror, half-riddled as it is by bullet holes. Young Jenny. Lenny is carrying a corpse. 

 

“... _ No.”  _ Arthur breathes, feeling his stomach slide sideways, go upside-down, feeling it vanish completely from his body. One of his flock is gone, and God knows how many more. Hosea is still in his bank heist finery as he approaches behind them, but his voice isn’t breathless, it is loud, and alarmed, and  _ angry _ . 

 

“What’s happened? Is that  _ cacophony _ what I think it is? Because it had better  _ not _ be.  _ Where’s Dutch? _ ”

 

Lenny shakes his head, his face frosted by grief. At first he refuses to let Arthur pry Jenny out of his arms. “Lost ‘im awhile back, we was runnin scared.  _ Pinkertons _ , Hosea, seemed like hundreds of ‘em... Poured in from  _ every direction _ , I swear we was about to meet our maker, then and there. I couldn’t  _ believe _ how many! Pinkertons, and other folk too-”   

 

“That’s what this commotion is?  _ That’s not possible _ .” Arthur counters, molten rage slowly rising up, and he slips his arms down until he and Lenny share the same grip on Jenny’s body. “Blackwater’s only barely just civilized! The hell all these people doin’ here?” 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Hosea’s hands are shaking. But the old huckster folds his cream-colored gloves into each other to keep from showing his nerves any further than that. This alone is enough to make Arthur go pale. 

 

“Oh, it’s  _ possible _ , my dear boys.” Hosea’s voice is a dry rasp in the smoke. The smell says,  _ ‘Fire’ _ , but the sounds of the street say  _ ‘terror, carnage, destruction. _ ’ “It’s happening! No time like the present to learn a lesson! I assume the riverboat heist did  _ not _ go over. Is Micah dead?”  

 

“No. Least, I don’t think so.” Lenny mumbles with a haunted expression, and finally Arthur pulls Jenny’s body fully away from him. When Lenny’s arms are empty, he stumbles over and lags against a shopfront, like every drop of his blood has also gone out of him too. “Dutch, he ain’t right… He..? He shot a woman, out on the water, I don’t… I’m not rightly sure even  _ why _ . But when we tried to escape, that’s when we-- it all went sideways. Straight to hell. Mac got shot. Davey too…. And... John. Jesus help us in our time of need.” 

 

“ _ Where’ _ s _ John? _ ” This sentiment practically explodes out of Arthur, and he is suddenly clutching Jenny’s corpse so tightly that blood has run all down his front. The fine clothes Hosea has given him to look the part for taking out a loan are ruined for sure. But the clothes don’t matter. Suddenly, not even Jenny seems to particularly matter. He is afraid all over again, like he had been afraid for John when the O’Driscolls had produced his bloody hat. But before he can receive an adequate reply, the far end of the block erupts in gunfire, and a portion of the battle flows over from the alley. They have a need to run, and so Arthur only hitches up Jenny’s body and they turn tail, then haul down the cobblestone street without another word.  

 

 

~

  
  


 

 

Blackwater is on fire. Four of the structures on the drag by the pier have gone up in a violent lick of hot yellow, and some of it is beginning to leap over as embers to other places when the wind blows. A cart horse whose driver has been shot screams as the crates in the back are set ablaze. Bounty hunters, Pinkertons, and civilians alike have all been killed in the street. Women have been shot in the face, and the elderly, and children. Whose intention was whose, which bullets were meant to kill what folk, none of it is clear. The corpses are all so still that it seems a mockery of the chaos that still swirls around them, their eyes wide and unseeing despite the blood and smoke. 

 

Arthur struggles to keep up with Lenny and Hosea as the sun begins to set. Jenny’s corpse is growing heavier the further they go, the longer they run. As they pass the pier, Arthur looks down the glassy river and sees the mighty riverboat Dutch and Micah had been so keen on; it has also been set ablaze, and it’s captain moans the horn once as the proud vessel slowly begins to sink below the black surface of the current. Hell has come up to earth. It seems strange, surrounded by fire as they are, that the air should still be so cold. Winter has truly come.

 

The horses are gone. Stolen, most likely, or maybe dead somewhere. They run anyway. Anywhere is better than here. 

  
  


 

 

~

  
  


 

 

The night is cold. And Quiet. Quiet to deafness.  

 

There is nothing to dig a hole with. Arthur decides to use his hunting knife to break apart the rocky top crust of the hillside, and after he has peeled away most of the big chunks of icy quartz, he reverts to just using his hands. This is possibly for the best, considering all the horrible thoughts he has racing through his head. He can’t contain them all.  _ Scoop. Scoop. Scoop. _ He thinks of his failures, and he thinks of John. He thinks of all the times he was afraid of doing this same thing before. For greasy little Johnny Marston, afraid of putting him in the ground. And he thinks of all the times he may have to do it again in the future. For others. For Lenny. For Hosea. For Dutch. And yes, maybe  _ still _ for John. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tonight.  _  Scoop. Scoop. Scoop.  _

  
  


In the dark, Hosea is an even blacker silhouette cut against the night-blue sky, and he says nothing at all. He just quietly sits on the hill as Arthur tears into the dirt, carving out the place they’ll lay Jenny to rest. Arthur digs until his hands begin to bleed, but by then the hole is big enough for Lenny too, who jumps down and helps to finish the job. They have refused to light a fire for fear of pursuit, and so only the frozen moon watches them as they lie Jenny down, then drag piles of the pebbled black earth back on top of her cold body. 

 

For a while after it is done, Lenny sits beside Hosea in the silence and whimpers to himself. He is close to tears again, but by this point it sounds mostly like shock. Eventually, Hosea wraps an arm around his shoulders until Lenny pitches over on him in exhaustion and quiets. Something terrible has happened in Blackwater, Dutch’s heist having gone sideways faster and harder than any of them had thought possible. But Lenny’s version of the story comes in horrified spurts and long silences, and half of it is his grief over Jenny, and so nothing is clear except they all must run, and yesterday was already too late for it.

 

“...There’s no marker.” Eventually Lenny murmurs at the grave. He is still half tucked into Hosea’s armpit, forehead resting on Hosea’s clavicle like a toddler with his grandfather.  Arthur nods stiffly, a few feet off. Even exhausted as he is, he is still too anxious to sit down. He flexes his bloody knuckles and looks off into the distance. 

 

“Charles’ll come back later. We’ll give her a stone. When we can.” 

 

Hosea has been quiet for a while, long enough to rattle Arthur’s nerves, but he  _ hums _ at this statement with a noise of agreement, and it is the first time Arthur thinks that Hosea has ever sounded senile.  _ Lost _ . Perhaps this is a worse situation than even Arthur knows.  “Hosea?” He prompts. The old man nods in the silence. 

 

“Arthur’s right.” Hosea finally agrees. “We’ll find the time to mourn, but now’s the time for action. We need horses. And we need to find out where the rest of us have…” he carefully considers his next words, “... _ gone off to. _ We need to gather up. Move out. We’ll freeze to death before any god damn Pinkertons even get a chance to kill us off if we stay on this hillside. Can you walk?”

 

Sniffling, Lenny nods, and reluctantly pulls away from Hosea. Arthur turns to haul him to his feet, then Hosea too, but slower, and the three of them start off again, Jenny’s grave vanishing into shadows behind them. Her body is gone, as fast and cruel and impossible-seeming as all death is, but her weight on them stays just exactly as heavy as before. 

  
  


 

~

 

 

 

“Go over it again,” Hosea requests, kindly as he can, while also sounding winded. They continue over black and silent grass. It seems to extend on and on, into a frigid infinity. Arthur thinks they have been walking for hours. Sunrise must be soon. He shivers hard in the cold night air, but it is Hosea who he is most concerned with. This kind of physical exertion is clearly too much for the old man, and Arthur worries in Hosea’s direction as they move. He’s slower now. And his cough is beginning to act up. 

 

Lenny nods at Hosea’s question, calm now, less in agreement but more in recollection.  “Said I saw Davey go down. But Mac got it worse. Shot fulla holes by those Pinkerton  _ bastards, _ right behind the stables. The boys was makin a break for the horses, John got up in a saddle, but not the Callendars. Saw John get clipped, but he was off like a shot, and me n’ Jenny was barely able to back up in time. She tried to go back for Davey, but… well, _ you know _ .” He hangs his head.  

So John has likely survived.  _ John is still alive _ . Arthur trembles with cold and relief mixed together. But then he begins to think. Where is the room for heroism when every direction you look in, a fire burns? Arthur chews on this in silence as he thinks of John in the saddle. John is brave, and John is strong, but he has no head for these things on his own, and Arthur is afraid because from Lenny’s account, John is much too far away from Dutch. There is a crack that has been split down the middle of things, something basic Arthur thought he understood about the gang has shifted, and he is nervous for Dutch like he has never been before. John has escaped by all accounts, but what of the others? How many more holes will Arthur dig? What has been lost?

 

When Hosea’s wheeze becomes another coughing fit in the freezing night, Arthur’s worry turns his stomach sick, and more than once he pushes down the urge to vomit. Instead, he just keeps moving. 

 

 

 

~

  
  
  
  


 

At first light, Hosea’s body gives out first among the three of them, and he staggers to one knee. He is consumed by a wracking cough that fills the air with thick white clouds of vapor, but even in that moment his hand goes out to ward off any assistance. 

 

“I’m--  _ fine _ !” Hosea insists between hacking, “Stop your-- stop your  _ mollycoddling,  _ Arthur!”

 

“Goddamn you, you stubborn old man!” Arthur yells, and he bends down and scoops Hosea up in his arms just like he had with Jennie’s corpse. At first this only makes Hosea’s coughing fit worse as he is overtaken by embarrassment and anger, but he settles after a prolonged effort when he realizes he doesn’t have the strength to free himself from Arthur. 

 

_ “Don’t tell --anybody-- about this,”  _ He wheezes against Arthur’s chest, who only grunts and glowers at everything and nothing, and Lenny finally gives his first, sorrowful smile.  

  
  
  
  


The approach of dawn has turned the black grass orange again, and though the colors of morning are warm, a blustery wind has picked up. Arthur has lost count of how many miles they have walked, only that they have crossed no roads. They shiver helplessly as they push against the onslaught. Nobody is dressed right for this harsh weather, and Arthur is thankful when they take the turn down the far side of a small hill and gain a little wind cover. 

 

Lit clearer now by morning light, Arthur sees that Lenny is covered in dried blood all the way down his front. A glance down at himself reveals nothing much better. It is just the sight of Hosea, small and frail in his fine city clothes, against that matching splash of blood that makes Arthur think how  _ fragile _ the old huckster has become of late. He feels…  _ lighter _ . Perhaps he has always been more fragile than he looks, Hosea is clever enough to hide his own shortcomings after all, but adversity rapidly ages a man and he is too old at the moment to bear the weight of any additional years. Again, Arthur recognizes that he is afraid. The sight and feel of Hosea in his arms is enough to prompt too many dangerous imaginings. 

 

Arthur does not want to think of carrying the corpse of his father. Or of John. Or of any of them. But he is too exhausted by now to keep the doom and gloom at bay. It comes up his throat as an oil-slick. He is close to buckling himself, and it is only the threat of letting his father and brother down that keeps his feet shuffling forward. His hands have long ago frozen in place to their grip on Hosea’s shoulders and knees. He does not know what direction to walk, except to just keep moving further and further away from the cursed Blackwater river.

 

The grass sings. It moves as an ocean, shifting back and forth with the icy wind. Arthur’s ears have gone numb, and he is not so sure he can see very clearly anymore, but he knows this land. He knows it too well. It is the terrain he had traversed with John tied to the back of his saddle. It had meant freedom to him, an indiscernible amount of time ago. It had given him relief once. 

 

“ _ Arthur _ !” The voice seems very far away. Arthur keeps moving, one foot in front of the other. One step. Another step. Hosea is asleep in his arms.  

 

“Arthur!” 

 

He looks over, but Lenny’s hand isn’t on his elbow like he thought. Lenny has stopped a while back, and Arthur has the distant thought that maybe he has just now given up completely. Maybe they will all die here. But when Arthur looks for him, he not only finds Lenny standing stock still in a dried patch of thyme, but he sees a mounted figure cresting the hill behind them in the distance. And then Arthur  _ knows _ it is over. If a Pinkerton has caught up to them, then others will soon follow. And if it is a bounty hunter, then all hope is truly lost.  

“Arthur! _ Arthur, you crazy bastard! _ ” the sound approaches from everywhere and nowhere. 

 

Something shifts internally, and Arthur stumbles forward a step, but he doesn’t drop Hosea. The figure approaches from the east, with the sun hot on his back. The shape of the rider wavers against the white morning light, and Arthur can feel the thud of the horse’s hooves as it approaches, resonating up his swollen ankles. 

 

“For  _ fucksake _ !” somebody shouts, with a voice like gravel.  

 

The horse thunders to a halt in front of him, and that voice is... familiar. He knows it. Or, he knew it a long time ago. Arthur blinks, and licks his chapped lips. The rider leaps down, and then he knows why it is so familiar.  _ John _ is there, with hands on his arms that are gentle enough to ache, prying Hosea away. But John’s hands are also too hot when they touch his frigid skin directly, and it feels for a second like a molten iron brand. Arthur hisses, but his arms flood with relief and fresh blood when they are finally empty. John is gone awhile, and Hosea is missing when he returns.

 

“...The hell you doin, you dumb bastard?” John gently accuses, and his too-hot hands are on Arthur’s face, pushing his hair back, checking his pupils, clawing over his ears. 

 

“... _ Pinkertons _ ... _ Fire _ ...” Arthur mutters, beyond exhausted. He is a dead man walking. 

 

“What’s not safe is you three _ wanderin’ around _ the middle of goddamn  _ nowhere _ like some dumbass lost Texas Longhorns! You know how long I been lookin’? You really made it out here! Can’t believe you ain’t froze to death! Stupid as hell, Morgan, shoulda just kept put, I’dve found you a hundred times quicker!”

 

“ _ Dumb _ .  _ Stupid. _ ” Arthur echoes dully. The words are familiar, but only very distantly. John laughs at them without any real humor, but then so does Lenny. When they look up, Arthur finally notices that Hosea has revived somewhat and is standing with Lenny by John’s Warmblood, looking slightly less worse for wear than the rest of them. A blanket is wrapped around his old shoulders. 

 

_ “Get on the horse, Arthur. _ ” Hosea demands in a haggard voice. 

 

Arthur snorts. “ _ You _ get on the horse, old man!” He is only half in control of his faculties, and even that seems generous. But John interjects before the argument can continue any further;

 

“ _ -Lenny and Hosea _ get on the horse. Somebody’s gotta come back here no matter what, right? No way in  _ hell _ all four of us can ride same-saddle. Might as well be the lightest ones that go! And I’m twice as well off as the rest of you sorry sons of bitches, so  _ head out _ ! Daylight’s burnin’! The camp’s already on the move, north towards Ambarino on that road what’s got the big cave underneath the broken limestone chimney? Hosea, you know the place?” 

 

“I know it.” 

 

“So  _ go _ ! And send riders back out for us, quick! I’ll keep Arthur in shape till then. Just give me my camp roll.” 

 

Something very far away inside Arthur is mad that John has taken control of the situation. It is an old, brittle power dynamic, and tested to the point of breaking, but it is still very deeply entrenched. Arthur struggles without a direction, pulling John’s arm in illogical protest until he realizes suddenly that Lenny and Hosea have already gone. Again, he has found himself in the wilderness outside of Blackwater alone with John Marston. 

  
  
  


This time, John is less amicable. He silently starts to unbutton Arthur’s coat, and as fried as Arthur is, he cannot see the logic in this a single whit. He slaps John’s fingers away. “ _ Enough _ of that.” 

 

“Would you just _ let me-? _ ”

 

“Keep yer hands to  _ yourself _ you  _ greasy _ little-”

 

“-stubborn sonovabitch, would you just take off your coat so I can get you warmed up? Yer  _ freezing- _ ”

 

“--Thought you was dead again!” Arthur forcefully interjects, audibly distraught, and John stops on a dime. He listens to Arthur with a wary look, and Arthur is too exhausted to hide the crack in his voice. “Thought…Thought some  _ Pinkerton _ shot you fulla holes for target practice. Again.  _ Again _ , John. You know what that’s  _ like _ ?? We buried Jenny last night. Coulda been you, just as easy.” He shakes his head like an exhausted workhorse. Once, disbelieving. Twice, world-weary. Thrice, heartbroken. “... _ coulda been you. _ ” 

 

John pauses. He is so still for a moment that even Arthur, lost in his exhausted haze, can tell he has struck upon something. John mutters under his breath, “...I’d  _ never _ make it that easy.” 

 

Whether the end of that sentence is  _ ‘for them _ ’ or  _ ‘for you’  _ is impossible to figure.  

 

_ “That’s right.. _ .” Arthur murmurs back, and something is a little cruel in it, despite everything between them. Or maybe because of it. He is  _ so tired. _ “ _ Nothin’s ever easy with little Johnny Marston, now is it? No no no _ .” 

 

“-This a reaction to frostbite? Your brain turn into a chunk of ice, or..? You’re nastier’n a  _ viper _ right now, Arthur. S _ wear to God _ . You did good for the family, but howsabout you think about  _ yourself _ a little for now?” His hand reaches out, “-- _ take this off _ .” 

 

When John yanks on his coat again, Arthur takes a wild swing at him. But John is awake and warm and cognisant, and so he ducks. Arthur’s fist slices through open air, and then John counters low, quick and effective. Arthur stumbles back when the punch lands hard across his jaw. He totters on his boot heels for a precarious second and then he crashes, hard, and completely flat on his ass. He stays there, silent and exhausted in the dirt. John only clucks at his pathetic condition, and then he turns to throw open his bedroll.

 

 

 

 

~

  
  
  
  


 

Arthur is warm. This is because John is warm. John’s skin has  _ always _ run hotter than most folk, after all. It is a peculiar thing. He has always been a regular slice of summer, wrapped up in the flesh of a man. 

 

John has gotten under Arthur’s clothes. He has pressed in close until they touch a little everywhere, and it is a little bit like he has gotten under Arthur’s  _ skin _ , too. His body is the perfect furnace, and soon enough genuine feeling has returned to Arthur’s face and limbs. John smells like blood, and dirt, and metal. It is a musky, familiar stink. His skin is touching Arthur’s arms, and touching his chest. Their legs twine together. In actuality, John has already long since climbed into Arthur, metaphorically speaking. A long, long time ago. But it somehow seems more prescient now; a special place has been made just for John in Arthur’s heart, forged by loyalty and time. It is a circular place, just below the breastbone, and it looks a little like the hole where a wolf lies down in dead leaves to sleep. It is always sunlit there. John slots right in. Every time. 

 

“ _ They’ll find us _ ,” Arthur is between worlds, and yet he is still restless. He bobs above and below the horizon line of consciousness, blanket pulled up heavy over their heads. “ _ Cain’t stay here. Dutch, he  _ needs _ us _ \--” 

 

“ _ Shhh, shhh _ , Dutch ain’t even in Blackwater no more. We still got a long way to go, Morgan.” John’s hand smooths across Arthur’s face, both of them tucked in tight into the bedroll. John has offered himself up physically to keep frostbite from setting in. Arthur is warm again,  _ so warm _ . “Just sleep, for now. We’re gonna  _ need _ you.” 

 

“ _ Abigail _ ?” Arthur fights to stay conscious, but it is a losing battle. He is slipping under again. “ _ The boy? Where’s the boy? _ ” 

 

“Safe enough, movin’ with the camp. With Dutch. Safe as any of us can be right now.” 

 

“... _ Safe _ .” Again, Arthur finds himself parroting John’s words. His head feels so heavy. He is not so sure he has ever really known what  _ ‘safe’ _ means.  _ ‘Dumb’ _ or  _ ‘stupid’ _ are easy, but  _ ‘safe’? _ That one is hard. 

 

John is only a blur, though he is close enough to still taste the staleness of his breath.

 

“...Arthur,” he whispers, after a tentative pause. So low that all the burr has gone out of his voice. “...Tell me somethin’. Tell it to me true.” 

 

Sleep is sucking Arthur down, but he keeps trying to wade back up into the warm shallows. He has nearly gone. “ _ Hmm _ ?” 

 

But John waits so long to ask his question that Arthur thinks he must have drifted off too. Arthur only hears the words in the distance after what feels like never, and forever. Arthur knows the question is important, but he has drifted too far away from himself to catch it in his hands anymore. He only hears it, but he can’t understand it, even though it still makes him sad somehow. Under the blanket, John presses their foreheads together. 

 

_ “… Do you… still want me?”   _

 

Blackness takes over. Arthur sleeps. 

  
  
  


Charles comes for them, a quarter past noon. If he is surprised to discover Dutch’s sons with half their clothes discarded, wrapped in a snarl of limbs beneath John’s wool bedroll, he doesn’t say anything. He has seen what the cold can do to the the flesh of a man. He knows John is helping Arthur as much as he is capable. Charles only offers his understanding, and then he offers his assistance in pushing Arthur, dressed again and only half-awake, up into the saddle. Charles has only brought one horse extra, and so John climbs up behind Arthur to keep him upright, and they ride for family and for home, wherever it may be headed.  

  
  


 

~

  
  


 

 

The convoy is already in the foothills when the first snow begins to fall. Arthur sleeps in the back of a rumbling supply wagon for the first two days, because his body doesn’t offer him an alternative. He dreams strange dreams about the past. About John, but younger; back from when he was still a weedy little kid, and still half idiot from an ornery horse’s kick to the skull. Things were simpler back then, back when John knocked over water pails, and burned the coffee, shirked his reading lessons, hunted rabbits in the morning, and hid from the things that made him sad. Arthur dreams of that John, sitting in the seedy grass in the summertime. A wheat stem is stuck in his teeth and an obnoxious grin is on his face, like he’s bored of something Arthur has said, and he has decided to tease him about it instead of accepting the offered lesson. Arthur does not touch him, but evidently John is still warm even in dreams. After a while it is impossible to untangle him from the slow sink of the sun as it drags a golden line along the western mountains. He’s close, then very far away. He passes slow and solitary through grass, barefoot and at ease. Wandering, content. He is radiant. John is John awhile, and then he is Isaac, and then he is little Jack. He is Mary too, young and smiling and spread out on a blanket. He is all of them in turn, and then he is the wolf, slipping up the edge of dusk and vanishing over the other side.

 

When Arthur wakes up to a cloak of icy white snow on the third day, Dutch immediately puts him to work. Nobody has the time to question the validity of this decision. Not Hosea and not Lenny, and not Charles, or even John, and least of all Arthur himself. There is no time for anything, except to run.

 

 

 

~

  
  


 

 

Arthur has never seen a snow like this. It feels biblical, and he doesn’t have the strength to question that thought as he helps the camp forge its way through the savage mountains. It seems a permanent night has settled over them from the thickness of cloud cover, and the storm has raged so long he begins to lose track of time as a whole. Surely, if the Pinkertons can’t catch up to them in all this mess, then the cold will. Arthur is  _ exhausted _ by the cold. But he wonders if John feels it worse.  

 

Speed is everything now. Some days, Arthur forges ahead of the gang with Charles and Bill to cut a path through the ice, and they bend their backs in ferocious effort to clear the way for the wagons. A shovel and a pick join Arthur’s regular arsenal beside his revolvers and his rifle,  and he has no time to waste on paying any mind to the needs of his body. He must only be strong, and this time, fortunately his body holds out. He’s dressed for it now, at least. And he doesn’t have any other options. 

 

They take turns with the worst labor, and the camp only stops to rest the horses when they show signs of buckling. Though their situation is dire, finding themselves suddenly stranded in the middle of this apocalyptic storm would surely spell death for them all. Davey has been recovered, but the reaper is at his heels, and Arthur still cannot quite comprehend Hosea’s fragile state, not newly made, but only newly noticed. 

 

Arthur hates himself for his lack of awareness. Everything about him over the last year has been gummed up. He has tried to be a pillar for their community, but nothing like the massive failure of the Blackwater Massacre highlights his inadequacies more. Arthur feels as lost as they are in this godforsaken storm, and he does not know what has happened to Dutch, who is the same, but different somehow too.  Loving John has made Arthur ill-minded, he thinks in anger. It seems the proper restitution for the crime of stealing from a man’s family, but still, it is a glaring inconvenience at best. He has poor focus for important things, and poorer care for others in his family who matter just as much. And yet, he is still a fool for John, watching him with edgy dislike as John sneezes and shivers in the saddle. Winter does not suit him, but this storm seems a deathly inversion of his very nature. John struggles with all the rest and stays strong as he can, but this perpetual ice has given him a haunted expression Arthur knows all too well. 

  
  


It seems a very damning curse indeed that even after all with John is finally over and done with, that Arthur  _ still _ seeks him out with his eyes. He still spares extra care for his well being, extra focus Arthur cannot afford to waste on something which no longer belongs to him. This makes Arthur sharp with John again. Sharper than he means. Sharp enough to bark orders at him when a simple request would do, and Arthur knows he is doing wrong when John rankles under this treatment with hurt and resentment. Everything is precarious.  _ Everything _ . They vanish deeper and deeper into the icy wilderness, and Arthur once again vanishes deeper and deeper into himself. 

 

 

 

~

  
  


 

 

When John is sent out scouting ahead in the storm one frigid afternoon, Arthur feels a tendon in his neck stiffen to the point of snapping. He keeps his silence to try to hide his feelings, treating Dutch with a metered strength when hearing about this decision, but like always Arthur knows he is too easy to see through. He is much too tense. The gang stops to repair a broken spoke and cut apart the half-frozen corpse of an elk, and Arthur sinks down on the back of his wagon for a desperately needed moment of quiet respite. He finds all at once that he cannot tolerate the imagined vision of John alone in snow. It is absurd as it is untrue, John is grown and very capable by now, but it is still a ghost of a thought, an opaque fear that buffers around Arthur’s head like frozen hailstones. What if something happens? 

 

A cigarette thrusts itself into Arthur’s line of vision, and he looks up to see Charles, bundled to the gills in blue wool and looking calm as ever.  He accepts the cigarette gratefully, and lights it with a wordless nod of thanks. Only Charles has come through this unrankled, and Arthur wonders again what sort of life he has lived before joining their gang.

 

“...He’ll be fine.” Charles intones without a prompt. “Stop worrying. Or, is there even any point in saying that?”  

 

Arthur squints up at Charles against the wind, and snow collects on the brim of his hat. At first, he doesn’t say anything, but only smokes and thinks. He sucks in a lungful and purses his lips. Charles has always been too nosy. He sees things that others usually won’t, and at the moment this feels more like a problem than a boon. But Arthur also thinks that there isn’t any point in trying to argue either, and so he just lets his breath out all at once. He looks at the ground, where his feet have been swallowed up past the ankle by ice.  

 

“...He’s not fit for it.” Arthur finally grumbles. 

  
  


“John’s not fit for  _ scouting _ ? Give him a break, Arthur. He’s not made of glass.” 

 

“No  _ time _ for breaks.” He grunts. “If we lose him out there, in all  _ this _ ? It’ll be…” the word twists itself over his tongue, “...troublesome.” 

 

“... _ Troublesome _ ?” But it is not a question. Charles pronounces it back at Arthur, in a very  _ peculiar _ way. Very slow, and very clearly.  _ Troublesome. _ And then, he lets it sit. Like he’s tasting the word. Examining it from every angle. Arthur glares at this, unwelcome of the extra scrutiny. He is not in the mood. 

 

“That’s right.  _ Trouble _ .”  He gives Charles an edgy look, then glances down. “What happened to yer hand?” 

 

Lifting it up between them, Charles flexes his left fingers, hand wrapped up in a nest of white cloth. He watches his fingertips wiggle, and looks a little regretful. “Grabbed a burning timber before it hit Micah in the head.” 

 

“Wasted effort.” Arthur dismisses immediately. He has never hated Micah more than he does right now. For what he has dragged them all into. And for what he has made Dutch say, and do. Charles nods in agreement.

 

“ _ Yeah _ . Yeah, I think you’re probably right.” He pockets his injury and sucks thoughtfully on his own cigarette in the following empty pause. They listen to Pearson yelling with Javier about which cut of elk is less frozen solid. Somewhere, little Jack has begun to wail. 

 

“... Seems like you bounced back pretty quick.” Charles continues. “You feeling okay?” 

 

Arthur sighs, and leans down on his knees. He is continuously tired. “Fine enough. Arms still a little stiff.” 

 

“I didn’t mean your body.” 

 

Finally, Arthur looks up and fixes Charles with a pointed stare. “...You  _ want _ somethin’ in  _ particular _ , Charles? What’re you on about?”

 

“I just don’t get it. About John. He saved you out there, and you’ve been tearing him up.” Like always, Charles is too honest. Arthur flinches at this honesty. “What happened? I thought you two were doing okay.”

 

“What  _ happened _ ?” The last word comes out incredulous. What happened. What  _ happened _ ? What did happen?  _ Death _ happened, Arthur supposes. Or the idea of it, anyway. Again. He wonders how his fear of burying John in the ground keeps eclipsing everything. He wonders how one person can so catastrophically alter the course of another person’s life. Arthur shakes his head once in clueless wonderment, then runs a tired glove over his face. “You know what, Charles…? I ain’t even sure.”

 

Charles nods, sage as he’s ever been. “Isn’t that the way of things.” 

 

After a while, enough snow collects on Arthur’s hat that it starts to get heavy, and he nods forward to slough it off. By the time they finish their cigarettes, Charles is dusted all over in snowflakes, and Arthur stands up on knees that creak like old wood. He groans at the gesture, and dusts himself off from where he too has slowly become overtaken by the swiftly falling snow. 

 

_ “...I think I’m lost, Charles.” _ Arthur says low, and plain enough. There’s no self-pity in it. He’s only mystified. Life has taken them in a radical new direction, and he knows he could never tell Dutch about his fears; Dutch, who would judge him for that weakness, Dutch, who is strange and not himself, and yet more himself than ever. And Hosea cannot hear it, because he is too weak at the present moment to hold any more weight. Only Charles can listen without judgement, and true to his personality, he takes Arthur seriously. Respectfully. But then he promptly disagrees. 

 

“You’re  _ not _ lost.” Charles insists back, just as plainly. This is not a heated discussion. Only a passing back and forth of facts. “You’ve never been lost, you already know what matters. You always did.”  

 

At that, Arthur’s eyes go distant with contemplation. He is not sure he agrees at all, until he thinks on those words. He thinks so hard he feels like his thoughts are roasting his brain. He nods, more briskly this time. Perhaps, Charles isn’t wrong. “Loyalty.” He simply says. “And… family.  _ Family’s _ what matters.” 

 

Against the wild white backdrop of heavy-falling snow, Charles gives a knowing grin. He puts his good hand out and braces it against Arthur’s shoulder. He grips him, and shakes him a little in a gesture of confidence and comradery. Even here, even in all of  _ this _ , brothers can still recognize brothers. 

 

“See?” Charles murmurs, quiet and confident.  Arthur is fortified. “... _ Not _ lost.”  

  
  
  
  


 

~

  
  
  
  


 

The Colter settlement is small, and barely adequate. Abandoned in fairer weather and left to rot, the collection of shabby little huts and lean-to’s sports more holes than an O’Driscoll after a shoot-out. But parts of it are dry, and other parts of it can support a hearth fire, and so it is already better in the sense that they will die slower here, instead of dying quick. 

 

Davey is dead and gone before Arthur even lays his foot over the first threshold. And John. John is still missing, gone out ahead to scout and then never returned. When Abigail runs over to Arthur, pleading for his assistance in locating her erstwhile camptown husband, an ancient deja vu rises up to wave in a bright mockery in front of his face _. Where’s John? Where’s John? Where’s John? _ Always, the question repeats itself. Always, the answer is the same. Forever, it is always  _ John is gone _ . Arthur sighs tiredly, and then he nods. He’ll get John back. He knows what matters. 

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

None of them are any good with snow, but at least Javier tries to maintain a positive outlook. His whiskey burns down Arthur’s throat as they climb through the snowy mountain pass. John’s horse is already dead, they discovered it ripped apart by wolves further down the way, and the irony does not escape Arthur for a moment. He has been wondering since John was a child when the day will come that wolves will finally eat him, but it has not been until this day that the reality of such a death has actually settled in. Death by wolfpack is the kind of remarkable savagery one usually only finds leftovers from, because the deed itself happens much too fast to catch most times. Now, Arthur imagines all the ways a man’s internal organs can rupture in vivid detail, since he has just now observed the damage first hand in the torn belly of John’s horse. But John is nowhere to be seen, and there is no intestinal trail for them to follow like crumbs through a haunted forest, and so Arthur thinks there is a distinct possibility that John has escaped. Either that, or he has just been eaten whole. 

 

It almost seems funny. All of this. John. The mountain. The wolves. Blackwater. Everything.  Arthur clumps through the knee-high snow with Javier, bitterly cursing the cold weather. He has imagined every possible kind of horrible death up until now when it comes to John, and after the Blackwater Massacre, Arthur wonders if there is anything left inside of him to still feel afraid anymore. He has grown stony with his resolve. And with Charles to point out that Arthur’s moral compass has by and large always pointed in the same direction, he moves now with a surety he has never felt before, (minus the frigidity of his frozen joints.) If John is dead, then, well. That’s the way it is. And if he is alive? Then, Arthur will bring him home. He cannot always be on the edge of the blade, as he has been over John these past two years. Again, Arthur retreats into himself, for safety and security, loving John more and more mildly every day, and every day growing stronger in his old convictions.  _ Family _ is what matters. Loyalty is all that Arthur can believe in, and John is family before he is anything else. So while he still lives and breathes, Arthur will  _ always _ find John. Again and again, if need be.  

 

Arthur will always bring John home.   

  
  


 

 

~

  
  
  


 

 

John’s face is a ruin. John’s leg is a ruin. John’s  _ life _ is a ruin.  But Arthur finds him, and takes him back to Abigail. Exactly where he belongs. 

  
  


 

 

 

~

  
  
  


 

With a broken leg and a face ripped halfway to hell by a pack of hungry wolves, it is only natural that John’s fever flares up as quickly as it does. The night Arthur and Javier rescue him off the side of the mountain, he sweats through two entire shirts and bleeds through three layers of boiled bandages. The cabin John is laid up in smells immediately of sickness because of this, and he moans in his sleep like he’s having a very bad dream. If it is about wolves or if it is about something else, all of it seems likely bled together in his mind. All together into one singular, enormous, scorching hot mash of burning mess. 

 

 Abigail stays glued to John’s side with a wet cloth and a basin of snowmelt. Though her words are harsh, she is still dutiful in action, which is all that ever really matters anyway. She is so loyal that it makes Arthur hurt somewhere in his heart he thinks he has never even known about until now. Her loyalty hurts him like a scorch mark. She burns with it, like John burns with the fever. And like Arthur also burns, pointedly on the fringe of the group. He is afraid to come too close, afraid that others will see his face and know his mind. So Arthur stays reclusive. Worried. Lonely. Silent.  

 

When Abigail dozes in the chair that night, and it is so late that most folk sharing the floor have nodded off to the hollow whistle of the wind outside, Arthur permits himself to drift closer, until he finally stands next to the bed. He doesn’t trust himself in front of other people while John is so disadvantaged, but in the dark, he lets himself look.  

  
  


Arthur wonders if John will be able to use both eyes again, and he thinks how cruel it would be to blindside a marksman of John’s remarkable caliber. What part of him would change, if his strongest skills were suddenly and cruelly handicapped? Surely, he could find some way to survive. Some way to continue on. With family, anything is possible. But, it would still be a difficult road. 

 

Slowly and carefully, Arthur kneels by the cot, and then he peels off one of his gloves. He knows he is not permitted this, but he does it anyway. John is hot to the touch. Arthur brushes his fingertips across John’s forehead. He is damp with fever, but it is still surprising. Just the temperature of him. He is so much hotter than his already unusual warmness. It seems a fire is raging inside of him right now. He contains inside of his slight, ragged figure, the blazing ferocity of an entire sun. But Arthur thinks he has always distantly known this. 

 

When he finally takes his hand back, Arthur glances over to the chair by John’s cot, and he sees that Abigail has roused a little and is watching him closely. They meet stares, but neither says a single word. And Arthur gets the distinct sense that Abigail can see _ all _ of his secrets. Right at that moment. Very clearly. Every single one. 

 

Arthur is thankful for her silence. But he gets up off the ground all the same. And then, he quietly leaves. He doesn’t deserve the honor of caring for John at all, much less the unbecoming moment of stolen tenderness he has just now taken, like the thief in the night that he really is. His presence just beneath Abigail’s nose is an insult to her, at the very best. And towards John, he has no more words anyway. 

  
  


 

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

Within a week, the storm has broken. Colter is alive with glaring light in the afternoon, the bright mountain sun shooting back up into Arthur’s face as he feeds the horses, then volunteers to fetch meat with Charles for Pearson to cook up for an early dinner. Charles teaches him a lesson in the clever handling of a bow since his hand is still nearly useless, and Arthur silently thanks the deer they kill for providing the sustenance his little family requires to pull through the final stretch of a period in time worse than any before it.   

 

Hosea is doing a little better, Arthur is relieved to find. He is much improved from a few days of rest by a hearthfire, and he is nearly back to his usual, clever self; a book in hand, and a thoughtful look in his eye. Dutch is also returning to his old personality. His confidence is like a fine cloak he wears all the time, and Arthur is very thirsty indeed for his surety and security. He needs Dutch to direct him, to give him a mountain to lean his back against, and the confident timber of Dutch’s voice does leagues for improving Arthur’s state of mind. 

 

Humor returns to the gang. Though their situation is still grim, with the break in the storm has come a break in the tension, until one day the girls are laughing and joking again. Miss Grimshaw is the only exception, her eyes ever on the road ahead, and Arthur thinks as soon as John is well enough for travel that they will be safe to come back down the mountain. He can’t wait for the sight of green grass again. 

 

For weeks, Arthur avoids the cabin John is in. His convalescence seems a family affair, and therefore inappropriate for Arthur to interject himself. John is out of any real danger now that his fever has broken anyway, and though Abigail has not said anything to Arthur about that silent look between them in the night, he knows she must be thinking about it. Often, and for long stretches of time, he can feel her eyes following him around the settlement. The sensation is uncanny. Arthur thinks, John and Abigail must both hold the record by now for the longest stares he’s ever felt in his life.

  
  


“Grub-a-dub-dub!” Pearson jokes stupidly when he thrusts a bowl of stew into Arthur’s hands later that afternoon. They stand under a wooden awning in the bright white daytime, and the stew sends thick plumes of steam up into the frosty air. Arthur accepts it gratefully, and delights in the greasy slick of the hot soup as it slides down his throat. He doesn’t even bother with a spoon. It is so hot, for a moment he is afraid his throat will blister. 

 

“Slow down, cowboy! You’d think I’ve never fed you before!” Again, Pearson jokes. Apparently everybody is in better sorts now that they are good and hidden from the Pinkertons agan, and the storm has finally broken.  Arthur wipes the grease off of his face with a glove, and it makes a crackling sound. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. 

 

“Tastes good today.” He grunts, and Pearson’s eyebrows raise.

 

“So it tastes bad other days?” When Arthur starts to amend his statement, Pearson only waves him off and talks over it. “Yeah, yeah. You’re on dinner duty. Take this to the invalid so miss Grimshaw won’t rip my throat out.” 

 

Looking dumbly down at the second proffered bowl of stew, Arthur feels confused. “Huh?” Pearson sighs. 

 

“Grimshaw put Abigail on forced bed rest for the night. Too much sitting up and  _ worrying _ . Somebody’s gotta feed the dog. But just between you and me, he seems just  _ fine already _ , doesn’t he? Actually, isn’t he sort of… leechy?” 

 

“Hey,  _ move _ it, Arthur!” Bill jostles into him in his haste to get to dinner, and Arthur finds himself falling back a step as the rest of the camp slowly comes out of the woodwork for stew. At first he only gives Pearson a nervy look of trepidation, but then the cook shoves the bowl forcibly into his hands and the deed is done. Arthur is dismissed, and the dinner queue displaces him completely. 

  
  
  


The cabin is empty when Arthur finally pushes through the door. John’s cot is at the end of the room, centered beneath the sprawling decay of the wall. He seems almost  _ fragile, _ there. Such a little thing, against the scale of the room. Thin. Prone. Wrapped up in strips of grey sheet.  Shifting out of a doze, John’s bandaged head rolls towards the sound of the door hinges, and then he jerks up on an elbow too fast when he sees who exactly has just entered. This motion is apparently _ too _ fast for him, because he immediately drops back down again with a groan of pain. “Arthur!” He rasps, a hand on his head, but even just the sound of it is half made of regret.  

 

Arthur can’t help but chuckle at this, because John is still every bit the messy pulp he was when they first collected him off the mountain. Arthur takes in a long, fortifying breath, then makes the walk across the room. He has never been so glad to be unobserved. 

 

“Feedin’ trough.” Arthur mumbles, and sticks out the bowl of stew. John looks at it, but makes no motion to take the food. 

 

“Where you been?” He demands point-blank, but there is a little worry and hurt hidden in it too. “Thought you was dead, you been gone so long!” 

 

“So now you know what it feels like.” The instant retort comes before Arthur can check himself. John’s visible eye narrows with unspoken emotion, and Arthur presses his lips together, tight. Too tight. A beat passes in awkward silence, and then Arthur sighs, and sinks slowly down into Abigail’s chair. He sets the stew on the next chair over, and runs the warmed-up hand over the tender flesh beneath the brim of his hat, then resettles it on his head. “You’re lookin’ well enough.” He murmurs, without looking at John at all. 

 

“How would  _ you _ know what’s changed? You ain’t come to see me.”

 

“I been busy, John. In case you haven’t noticed,  _ we’re on the run _ . And we ain’t  _ doin’ _ too good, all things considered.”

 

_ “All things considered _ ?” John repeats with judgement in his voice, and Arthur sits up straighter, a little incredulous. 

 

“Why’s everybody parroting every god damn thing I say back at me?” 

 

“ _ All things considered _ , your presence was  _ missed _ , Arthur.”

 

“Yeah, well. You ain’t dead.” Arthur grumbles. This particular thought loops back around to trouble him, and he quirks his head as the revelation goes deeper. “...Actually. You know? You’ve got a way about you, I think. Seems like _nothin’s_ _ever_ gonna kill off greasy little Johnny Marston. The immortal golden boy. Like some kinda goddamn fairytale creature.”   

 

Struggling against his blanket, John tries to sit up straight in the cot again, but he is still too stiff and weak for it. He grunts in frustration instead, and flops back down flat on his back. “I almost died! Wolves nearly got me this time!”  

 

“That’s right.” Arthur grins without humor. “ _ Nearly _ .” 

There is another awkward pause in the conversation as John regards Arthur with a sour look. It is an expression Arthur has long since become familiar with; a look that says John is thinking hard on something, which is not exactly a task he’s particularly well suited for. 

 

“I  _ know _ you ain’t usually this mean a bastard.” He starts off, laced with suspicion. ”So what’s the problem?” 

 

It is a very large question. Again, Arthur laughs with no humor in it, until the grin stretches papery across his teeth, _ tight, tighter, too tight. _ Much too tight. The grin becomes a grimace, and then Arthur is looking everywhere but at John. And then the grimace becomes a frown, and the frown turns into a different kind of beast entirely. Something sad, and distant. Arthur has always been useless when it comes to hiding his emotions. 

 

 “Stop it. Stop chewin’ yourself up.  _ Say _ somethin’! Jesus, Arthur, I just don’t want you to  _ hate _ me no more! It ain’t that complicated!” 

 

At this, Arthur finally just breaks, and he groans like a tired old bear. He is sick to death of this game they keep playing. It feels some days like it is  _ meant _ to go on forever, when instead he knows exactly how to end it. He leans over his knees and threads his fingers together between them, and his head bends low, until the brim of his hat hides his face from view. 

 

“...never hated you.” He rumbles. “Should know that already by now. You just been… well? ...Maybe I’m the fool. You been a  _ prime idiot  _ in the past, John Marston, but there’s a line between frustration an’ hate.” 

 

“Coulda fooled me!” John’s voice feels distant, stopped by the wall of Arthur’s hat, and Arthur glances back up to the cot with too much sadness and too much love in his eyes. John is not looking at him, which is a fortunate blessing, since Arthur feels his face betraying him completely without his consent. He tries to school himself and clears his throat, then readjusts his hat so it sits further back on his head.

 

“--m’just angry.” Arthur half mumbles, more tongue-stuck than he means, and his voice is almost too low to hear. He hadn’t expected this level of honest conversation, this quickly.  “I been  _ real _ angry. About  _ this _ whole situation,” His hand waves at the icy world all around them, “and… I dunno, I suppose…. I was just…” 

 

John stares at the ceiling. He supplies the word Arthur is looking for. “Scared.” 

 

Arthur nods. “... _ Scared _ .”  He quietly agrees. 

  
  


Now, John does roll his head back over to look at Arthur, and this time he doesn’t look away. It’s rare that John Marston has nothing to say, but he doesn’t say anything now, and it isn’t even the kind of quiet he has when he’s holding onto something guarded inside. He is just quiet, and the smell of his sweat rolls off him, stink-sweet and strong, like a child who is damp with sickness. Arthur finally looks back up; discomfort, worry and affection all intermingle equally on his face. Though he absolutely knows he shouldn’t do it, he sticks a callused hand out and gently brushes a bit of John’s hair away from the wounded side of his cheek. 

 

“I’d die for you, Arthur.” John rasps the familiar promise once again, point blank, and finally Arthur cracks a little bit of a genuine grin. 

“What’d I tell you about all that _dyin_ business _?_ ” He rumbles affectionately, and then there is more love in his face than he can control. He knows what it means when John says he’d volunteer his life, and if it is not a literal vow then Arthur surely knows it’s next logical translation. He leans closer to the cot, John’s eye calm and trusting as an animal, and when his next words come, they are hoarse and quiet, and next to nearly nothing. “Said I’d protect you. Said I’ll always... be loyal.” 

 

“... _To_ _what matters_.” John finishes the sentiment, equally quiet, and Arthur gives him a wordless, knowing nod.

 

There is loud laughter from outside, and then yelling, and Arthur deduces from the sounds that Javier has pelted Micah with a snowball, and that it has started a ruckus. Mealtime will soon be over and the little cabin will fill again with company, and so Arthur retracts from his lean, knowing their time is nearly up. He slowly makes the winter-stiff rise back to his feet, and then he turns to go, but John reaches out and hooks a corner of Arthur’s jacket in his grip. 

 

“So that’s all?” He asks, and it is so simple. Such a small thing, like he were asking about chicken eggs, how few in the basket, instead of a question much larger even than the two of them put together. Arthur thinks, maybe the question is bigger than the sky. He looks at first out towards the icy white light cracking in through the planks in the door, and he says nothing. And then he turns and rests a hand one more time on John’s head. It is loving, and it is firm, and in reality it is all that needs to be said, but then he speaks the words anyway, just so there can be no confusion. 

 

“That’s all, John.” He smiles kindly, and takes his hand back. “That’s the way it is.”  

 

John looks at him for a while without much of any expression, and then he sighs like he has had just about enough, and he finally closes his eyes. He sleeps, and Arthur leaves him there, and walks out into the frigid winter afternoon.  

  
  


Outside, Lenny and Bill have smashed Micah into a snow drift, and even Charles is taking a turn by sitting on Micah’s spine and shoveling snow down his shirt. Javier is by the guard fire, coated in a powder but slowly recuperating, and little Jack has run up to him crying about some nonsense Arthur cannot decipher. When Arthur goes down on one knee by the child, he manages to gather that Jack has plucked a particularly beautiful icicle, and his sorrow has only sprung from the fact that his hand melted it nearly to nothing. Arthur laughs fondly at the boy and hefts him up, and Javier goes to grab his guitar to sing him a song to cheer him. Abigail rolls a few logs and an old rotted stool over to the fire, and she sits next to Arthur and plucks the boy out of his arms, and bounces Jack up and down on her knee. When Javier begins to sing the folk song, Jack’s tears slow to a hiccup as he listens, and they sing together while Micah yells and Lenny laughs and the sun shines bright white on the snow;

  
  
  


_ “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, _

_ You make me happy, when skies are gray! _

_ You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you! _

_ Please don’t take my sunshine away.”  _

 

_ “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, _

_ You make me happy, when skies are gray! _

_ You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you! _

_ Please don’t take my sunshine away.”  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand there you have it, ladies and germs, the final official chapter. There’ll be an epilogue a little later on, but it’s canon Beecher’s Hope era and therefore incredibly spoilery and depressing, and I’ve been taking my sweet time with it since it hurts so fuckin bad. So 50000% SPOILER WARNING for the eventual final installment of this piece! Don’t read if you haven’t finished the game! Stay in that sweet world of early-chapter cowboy summertime like I am doing in my new playthrough. You can live for a long fuckin time without even moving thru chapter 3 is all I’m saying. Stay there. It’s great there. Sample strange herbs. Faceplant your horse over a cliff and capture 500 new wild horses. Wear a raccoon on your head. Discover and incorrectly identify dinosaur bones. Shoot rare and beautiful birds to decorate your hat. Stuff whole rotting squirrels into your satchel. Whisper to your journal while you draw really cool mushrooms. Get fat eating exclusively general store candy. Do crime, be gay, be free. 
> 
> Sorry about this chapter also taking a decade to go up, I have been otherwise occupied by writing on my personal novel, as well as starting work on a small and moderately slutty John-and-Arthur-Live-on-the-ranch AU, which is officially the first AU I have ever written... that is, if it is possible to categorize ANY fanfiction as NOT an AU, considering all fanwork exists outside of canon and I’m an insane person about canon compliance BUT THAT BEING SAID! There is at least one more RDR2 fic inside of me. At least for now. 
> 
> Special shoutout and particular thanks to hour-loop video game music youtube channel Z3nPunk, without which my writing mood would have never been quite on point. In fact, a strong 75% of this fic was written to the loop of Train Valley, which lowers my blood pressure and heals my emotional blisters upon the first five minutes of every listen. Enjoy it’s soothing properties for yourself here:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIZ3KogGJhI&t=510s 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much for reading to everybody who stuck with me, I’ve gotten so many really kind comments I didn’t expect. The turnout and response was awesome and I can really tell what a great fandom community RDR2 is shaping up to be! Anyway, I love John, I love Arthur. There are so many more great characters in this game I love, I could write a bible about them all. RIP me, thank you, goodnight.


	9. Chapter 9

  
  


Nobody has breathed a word about how long Arthur has been sitting there, beneath the tree. It is the end of the day, and the time the camp is usually bustling with evening activity. There are chores to be done, and whiskey to be drunk, and gossip to be traded. The camp coffers howl with hunger for their daily due of gold and jewelry. But tonight they are empty, and not even Dutch has turned his head to offer a situational chastisement to Arthur about it, which has always been exactly in his character. Though, John thinks, Dutch has been mighty quiet of late. And so Arthur just sits and sits, and looks out west over the forest like he has already gone and vanished into it, somewhere far away. He is so quiet as the sun fades that he has been completely enveloped by the green shadows of the trees. He seems a part of it, and they of him.

 

John finds that tears have never come easily; never as a pig-headed child, and certainly not as a man now, because anger does quite well enough to gloss over other, less  _ convenient _ feelings. It is no lie to admit that John has been  _ angry _ with Arthur for quite some time. But something blacker than anger had settled deep in his chest the day he first saw Arthur cough blood into his riding glove. Who knew blood could even  _ be _ that red? So John looks at Arthur sitting beneath the tree now, his chest moving slow and shallow, a waxiness settled into the skin of his face, and he does not know what else there is left to feel. John swallows the burr in his throat, and snorts hard through his nose to suck back the tingling behind his eyeballs, and he gruffly turns to go collect a bowl of stew from Pearson.

 

Most of the camp is gone. Or exhausted.  _ Or dead. _ John casts Pearson a watery thanks as he accepts his bowl without having to wait in line. The broth looks thin today, though John is sure he saw Charles haul a doe carcass in earlier that morning. Maybe something has gone out of Pearson, too. John casts another look at him, but Pearson has turned back to his table, and so John only sees the frenetic shake of his shoulder as he buffs one of his knives too hard with a wet rag. He can see the twinkle of an empty whiskey bottle dragging down his jacket pocket. 

 

The ground is rocky and makes a dry, crunching sound as John cradles his stew and walks over to Arthur. When he squats down next to him beneath the shadow of the tree, John lifts up the stew bowl and blows across its surface to pipe off some of the heat, then holds it out to his brother. 

 

“ _ Eat _ .” He rasps, and it takes a moment for Arthur to notice he is even there. When he regards the bowl in John’s hands with a blank look, John growls and shifts uncomfortably. “... _ Damn it, _ Arthur, don’t tell me you ate already, I know a rotten lie when I hear one.” 

 

Slowly, John receives Arthur’s full attention. He knows right away that it is his choice of wording, and John feels his stomach snarl into knots.  _ Rotten _ . He hadn’t meant it like  _ that _ . Arthur’s gaze grows more and more intense. Arthur is often like this, nowadays. Everything he looks at is like he has never seen it before until that moment. Animals and children keep his attention mostly. But John has caught him looking at wild tobacco too. And mountains. And mushrooms. Flowers. Birds. And he has seen Arthur looking at his own journal. Not reading it. Just touching the cover, like it was some sort of fresh, remarkable object. 

 

“Not hungry,” Arthur murmurs at last, with a bit of an apologetic grin. John only sighs and forces the bowl into his hands anyway, and Arthur sits back with it to keep it from spilling hot liquid on his crotch. He just holds the bowl. 

 

“...Oh  _ hellfire _ , Arthur, would you just eat the goddamn stew?” John chastises, and his voice is gruff and low; maybe lower than the situation merits. John wonders if anybody would even bother listening in when Arthur is in such a state. They all pretend nothing is the matter with him, when everyone knows this is the singular biggest lie Arthur has ever told. 

 

Arthur’s smile fades as he looks up again at John, then he lifts the lip of the bowl to his mouth. He sputters through the first sip, then hacks it back up like he is drowning. He abruptly sets it down, and his other hand raises to stifle a coughing fit. John sucks air through his teeth, and tries to feel anger when instead all he feels is that tight, tingling feeling in his throat again. Anger would be a relief, in the face of all this. But he just sits in the dirt to wait out Arthur’s fit in penitent silence. 

 

“ _ Don’t you- _ !” Arthur raises his voice between coughs, “Don’t you  _ look at me _ like that!” 

 

“Cain’t eat stew, now?” John whispers, still too rough, leaning closer. “Stew’s what you eat when you cain’t eat nothin  _ else _ !” 

 

Arthur leans his skull up against the back of the tree when the fit has passed, exhausted. These days he always looks like horse shit. John grits his teeth. Arthur is too thin, and his eyes have sunken. The skin there is dark, like someone has socked him in the face, except nobody has, (discounting of course any agent of the lawful world.) Arthur seems permanently drenched in a sickly layer of sweat. Despite all this, he still continues on with the ridiculous charade that everything is fine. Like this behavior isn’t bizarre at best, or fatal at worst. “I’m just _fine_ , John, you fuss like a _goddamn_ _woman_ , Christ alive.” 

 

Except everybody knows that Arthur is  _ not _ fine. John clenches his jaw shut to keep from arguing, but his eyes must say something annoying to Arthur, because Arthur just huffs and rolls his head back out towards the woods. It is always what is in the eyes that makes a story true, and John knows Arthur can’t look at him directly and fib like he has been doing all this time. For a while they sit in quiet together. 

 

The sky is violet and pink between slashes of the dark evergreen canopy, and shadows fall thick and heavy on the ground as the sun sets. Across the sky on the far side of camp, the moon has slowly crept up the other side of dusk in a silver crescent, while the east prickles with new stars. There is a little wind, and it rustles the highest branches and makes the trees creak and groan. Nearby, the camp horses snort and paw at the rocky earth, and the two hens they have left scratch and peck and coo at one another. 

 

John knows Arthur likes to listen to his surroundings, sometimes. Just to  _ listen _ . John tries to listen too, like Arthur does. He is  _ still _ learning from Arthur, even now. He strains his ears and bends his head, feeling the breeze unsettle some of his greasy hair and tickle across his jaw. He hears Pearson clanking around by the cook wagon, and he hears a fire crackling, and somewhere on the other side of camp he hears Bill give an exhausted groan as he settles down. But it is not these things that seem significant to John. What is significant seems to be what he  _ cannot _ hear. 

 

There is no shrill cut of Miss Grimshaw’s voice to chastise the girls, and there is no crackle of Dutch’s gramophone. Hosea is not pontificating on some interesting thing he has discovered in a book, and Lenny is not eagery explaining the rules of a game. Keiran is not bragging, and nobody is singing, and nobody is laughing, and John cannot hear anywhere the fresh babble of running water. There is just wind, and a tired calm.  

 

“...Promise me somethin’, John.” 

 

John looks up, surprised that Arthur has broken the quiet, but Arthur is still not looking at him. Something about what he has to say must be untrue, or, maybe it is too hard to say with eyes, which suits John well enough since this has already struck his own face with a threatening, nervy tightness. “And what’s that?”

 

Arthur takes in a slow, rattling breath, and looks out at the trees in that way he has now, where it all seems fresh to him. Arthur caresses the sight of the western woods with his gaze. “There will come a time when… one day, well… I suppose when you’re a man grown…” He stops on that incomplete notion. Looks down. Grins a little. “...No, that ain’t right, you been a man awhile. I been too gummed up to see that clear enough, John, and well, that’s  _ my _ mistake. But one day, you and Abigail and the boy must have a… a  _ normal _ life. And when you do, I... couldn’t stand it if you gave another thought to me, or any of  _ this _ , ever again. Promise me you won’t say my name no more. When the time comes. Keep it to yourself, once you and your family are free. Let those words rest in peace.” 

 

Something hot streaks unexpectedly down John’s face, and he is dumbfounded to lift his hand and feel a corresponding wetness there. Once he has recognized it for what it is, he scrubs an angry sleeve across his cheek. For a moment, he is so surprised by himself that can’t speak at all. He has no head for these sorts of things. He never has. 

 

“ _ Arthur... _ ” John finally accuses, and the name itself is spoken aloud as a protest. But his voice is no more than a weak rasp, and when he looks up through his blurry vision, again he is struck in the heart, because now Arthur is looking at him very directly. Arthur’s face is earnest, and pained by the truth he still can’t bring himself to say.

 

“I want a _ better life than this _ for you.” 

 

Apparently, that is all Arthur can manage. After, he is quiet again.

 

It is all impossible. All of it. Every part of this orchestra of John and Arthur, and Arthur and Abigail, John and Dutch and Hosea, and all the rest. John jerks back and kicks a foot into Arthur’s forgotten stew bowl, sending it flying. Arthur lurches back in surprise and protest. “- _ the hell _ you think yer-?”  

 

“ _ -who says you ain’t gonna be there!? _ ” John yells as he stands up too abruptly, and what noise there is in the camp grows suddenly quiet. His knees crack, then shoot through with white pain. “ _ Why not you too?! _ ” More hot tears slick down his face, and John is sure he cannot tolerate any of this anymore. He needs anger like a man in winter needs his coat, and he dredges down deep inside to gather it to him. He wraps his fury around himself as tight as he can. “I don’t wanna  _ hear that, you tired old bastard! I ain’t never thought Arthur Morgan was a coward!? We NEED you! All of us! You understand me!? _ ”  

 

“John,” Arthur half rises, reaching out towards him. 

 

But John just smacks his hand away and pivots on his boot. He is off like a shot and away from Arthur before any more horror can sink under his skin as a result of what has been requested. Fortunately, nobody appears to be around to witness his shame as John bursts blustery as a baby back into his tent, and Abigail is dozing in the cot when he pushes through the flap. She smiles sleepily up at him as she rouses, but quickly drops her smile when she recognizes the state he is in.

 

“John, in  _ tarnation _ did you just-?” She murmurs in wonder as she sits up, but John instantly sinks to his knees and wraps his arms around her where she sits, and so her question is cut short. But then John thinks that Abigail must be the tender, understanding kind of wife after all, because instead of badgering him for additional information, she waffles in silence for a few moments, then simply wraps her arms around his shoulders. Surely, she has seen a man weep before, but she has never, never seen John weep, because it has simply never happened. Her tenderness is the poultice he needs on his hot face as he lets himself mourn something which has not yet come to pass, and after a while Abigail’s hands begin to stroke John’s hair with a firmness that seems to suggest she has intuited the situation. 

 

“Ain’t nothin’ fair in this big wide world... is there, Johnnyboy?” She murmurs kindly after a while, and John’s weeping silences as he lets his head rest weary in her lap. 

 

She will never know the half of it.  

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

**EPILOGUE**

  
  
  
  


 

Mrs. Adler has taken two shots at the wily cougar that lives somewhere just outside the front gate of Beecher’s Hope, and John thinks if she is given a third opportunity, that this time she would surely hit her target. As far as women go, Sadie is frightening and unamenable, and John is very fond of her. He has always harbored a soft spot for women who can take control of a situation without hesitation. If his precocious Abigail is any sort of standard to live by, then he surely knows the remarkable value of such a woman, even if their ilk has given him more than a few gray hairs. It is his very good fortune then that Sadie and Abigail are fast friends, because John is sure that the two of them together would be the end of him if they decided to bend their heads to the task of his demise. 

 

At first, Abigail is reluctant to allow Sadie to roam freely about the ranch for too long when she is out of work and bored. Abigail doesn’t like letting Jack see things he shouldn’t, and she is always preaching her desire to move further away from the lawless life they had once lived. The trouble is, Sadie has no qualms whatsoever about her profession, and so she is forever roping John into this job or that job, though always with the back end assurance that she will return John whole again later. Abigail for the most part meets these promises with a dry, reluctant look, but John gets the feeling that Abigail must secretly trust Sadie some days even more than she trusts the father of her own son, and so whenever Sadie asks, somehow permission is always granted. _ Eventually. _ After a while, Sadie becomes a regular sight on the ranch, at every and any hour of the day. 

 

There is a painting of a stag at sunset in the back hall of the house. John had dug it out of the charitable gifting of household goods Mr. Geddes and his wife had sent them in the big wagon, then hung it up on a nail in a place he knew he would walk by several times a day.  Sometimes, he still stops to have a look at it, at the way the filtered orange and purple light seeps through the trees, cut against those dark, angular antlers. Through the rough, hewn brown-black texture of crisscrossing branches. Through green and brown and the end of a long summer season. John thinks the noble stag is something like a creature he remembers from his childhood. It seems wisened by life. Strong. Comforting. It feels like those long ago memories of the Grizzlies, and of happier times.  

 

John catches Mrs. Adler staring at the stag painting sometimes too. There is something magnetic about it, he thinks, though he cannot quite figure what. She’s all clomp-footed most of the time,  knees swaggering and big, leather-tanned jacket threatening to knock all of Abigail’s delicate breakables off their displays... Sadie’s voice can fill a room like a thunderclap, but she gets quiet when she looks at that painting. And she goes very still. So quiet that it seems like she isn’t even in her own boots anymore. Like she’s somewhere else in the past not too long ago, and yet far away too. A different life away. 

 

John has just finished bedding down the animals and is coming in with the lamp when he finds her looking at the stag painting again. When she hears him enter, she looks up like she’s just been talking with a ghost. Abigail is dozing in a chair by the fire with a book dropped on her chest, and the room is quiet except for the crackle of low-burning logs in the fireplace. 

 

When John makes to ask a question, instead Sadie only hisses at him and thrusts out a calloused hand. He swallows, then dumbly passes over his oil lamp. She examines it close for a moment, then turns the knob all the way down low, until the flame is barely lit at all; just a soft, sleepy orange. The light is there, but only barely, and it is so  _ familiar _ that John thinks he can feel every single one of the hairs prickle up on his arms. A shiver goes down his spine when Sadie sets the lamp down on the table, right in front of the painting. She had made out of barely nothing a somber shrine to the sunset stag.  

 

After that, John never lets the stag lamp burn out. Not that week. Not that month. He makes sure it is  _ always _ lit. He tends to it daily, and drags the tips of his fingers down the rough frame of the painting in quiet prayer. Mrs. Adler is a remarkable woman, truly better than John is at most things other than shooting, but they are the same in the way that they know a single act can sometimes have more value than any word.  

  
  


~

  
  
  
  


 

Spring cuts across Beecher’s Hope at dawn like the sun warms the face after a long, frozen night. Lavender is in bloom again, and the smell of it carries on the wind the morning John saddles Rachel up and rides north for the crossroads just outside of Blackwater. Charles meets him there first, and they embrace with familiarity and love, just like brothers. Sadie arrives an hour later on a gigantic clodhopper of a cart horse that tries to bite John on the shoulder exactly five minutes in, but Sadie smacks him on the nose and he turns his huge head away from them with a sour huff of defeat. 

 

“Never could figure why you settled down so  _ close _ to this godforsaken town.” Charles laughs when they are in the saddle again and on their way past the marker for Blackwater.  

 

John shrugs. “Suppose I…  _ missed _ it, strange as that sounds?” He cannot say that Blackwater is all he has left to hold on to. All that ties him to that better, missing half of himself. That, and the well-loved leather journal that is now perpetually at the bottom of his satchel. He has found that drawing has proven itself to be… difficult. 

 

“Strange!” Sadie chips in with a joke in her voice. “ _ Really _ strange.” 

 

“Which among us can really cast the first stone? Huh?” John rebuts, sore about it, but still trying to come off as wise-sounding. He only barely makes it work. “Way I figure, we  _ all _ was strange from the start, Mrs. Adler, then  _ and _ now. Strange enough, in  _ some _ fashion or another!” 

 

“ _ Some _ of us is just stranger than others!” Sadie laughs, and Charles laughs too, but then he tisks and shakes his head. “Don’t be cruel to him, Sadie, it’s a big day.” 

 

“Alright,  _ Alright _ ! Sorry! It’s just, I didn’t realize we was ridin’ with a baby!” 

 

“Could a baby do  _ this _ ?” John reactively mocks, sometimes even now still the petulant child, and he kicks his horse into a gallop. He can hear Charles protesting, but his voice fades quickly into the distance as he and Sadie leap into an impromptu race, and blow across the great plains just north of Blackwater. When they hit the river, they finally slow again, and wade the horses through the cool, sparkling water. Nobody makes a joke about John drowning, but he thinks this must only be because everybody is still catching their breath. 

 

They break for lunch north of Strawberry in the Big Valley, and Sadie’s horse is frisky and follows Rachel around until she kicks him in the head. Charles has ridden an old dapple gelding, who is mostly unconcerned by these vigors of youth. They have grilled rabbit and root vegetables, and Sadie produces a flask of gin whose juniper notes make their meal seem fit for a king. Perhaps hunger is the best spice after all, but John cannot recall a meal he has enjoyed this much in a long time. Abigail is a passable cook, but under an open blue sky next to his brother and sister, the flavors sing.  

 

The journey slows after that, as the landscape grows more rugged. John doesn’t mind. The Grizzlies are familiar like an old friend, and the weather is gorgeous. For a while they ride in tandem with a huge herd of deer, some of which slow to walk alongside the trail with them. Charles notes this is unusual. “Docile. That’s odd. There’s a lot this season.” He hums in approval, and John spots a pair of fawns picking through a wild strawberry patch. The day is soft.  

 

“Wolves won’t want, come winter.” John murmurs, with a hint of nerve to it. But again, Sadie laughs.

 

“You gonna jump ship and finally go be with your own kind?” 

 

The jab makes John grin, but not entirely genuinely, and he doesn’t say anything at first. He can feel Sadie’s shrewd eyes on his face for a while before she turns forward again. Charles is unguarded with the pitying look he offers. 

 

“...I’m  _ with _ my own kind.” John amends seriously, but only after the silence has stretched a while, and the sound of their horses clomping uphill has filled up the empty space. “My  _ family’s _ my kind. And so’re you two... The  _ last _ of our kind.” 

 

“That’s right.” Charles agrees with a nod, quiet. Sure.

 

Then Sadie nods too. “...That’s right, Johnny-boy, and that’s the truth.” 

 

The mountain grows progressively more grueling after the long day’s ride, and John begins to regret showing off earlier with that fool’s race. But they are almost there, pushing through Bristlecones and Cottonwoods and Quaking Aspens whose leaves whisper to them in the breeze. The whole canopy is caught up in a low-whistling wind, and light cracks across the ground and shakes patches of white across their backs. They ride in the company of the sound of the woods awhile, because all know their destination is upon them sooner than not. 

 

They hobble the horses at the base of the final ascent just as the western sky dips into rich orange and purple along the distant mountain ridge. Charles leaves their camping gear exactly where it is on his horse, but grabs up a bottle of moonshine, and Sadie looks unusually sober with nothing at all in her hands. John pats his jacket where he has hidden away one of Jack’s storybooks and a flask of Abigail’s corn whiskey, and he doesn’t realize he has been rooted to the ground for too long until Charles rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

 

“You alright?” He asks kindly, and John nods once. They ascend on foot. 

 

As the peak finally comes into view, John stops up short at the distant sight of a mangy black wolf. Sadie immediately reaches for her pistol, but Charles puts out a hand to slow her, and she is looking at him in confusion when John watches the creature silently vanish over the ridge. When it is gone, he starts forward again, this time moving more swiftly. A few long strides become a jog, bringing him closer to the cliff’s lip. From the top, everywhere he looks, there is no beast. The thing has vanished.

 

“... _ more ghosts than people _ .” Sadie whispers behind him, and it is another palpable chill down John’s spine. Charles quirks his head at her and she shrugs it off. “...It’s somethin’ he said to me. Before the end.”  They do not need to say  _ who _ said, and Charles takes a slow, thoughtful sip of moonshine. 

 

John sighs and runs a hand over his face, pulling at the tired skin. This cannot keep going on the way it has, seeming forever and ever. The hurt is too keen to sustain. His bristles crunch beneath his glove, and he shifts his weight and looks down as he pulls them off. When his gloves are pocketed, he retrieves Jack’s storybook, and Abigail’s flask of whiskey.  His naked touch make them feel more honest in his grip. 

 

Blue flowers have blossomed all around the tombstone, and some small woodland bird has built a nest in the tall grass around the base. The tiny eggs are a small clutch of hope for lives yet unlived. John upends the whiskey away from the nest, but still with a reverence. Afterward, he sets the book down on the grave, and kneels to put his palm on the cold stone. He thinks how well Charles has done. How heavy that weight must have been, to carry his friend all the way up to this place in silence. To have dug the hole. Every shovel full of dirt unimaginably heavier than the last. To have cut the rock. To have chosen each letter with care. John thinks it is what brothers are owed. 

  
  
  


 

_ ARTHUR MORGAN  _

_ BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO HUNGER AND THIRST FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS _

  
  
  


 

“Hello, old friend.” John rumbles. “We missed you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
